


More Sense Than Honour

by Miss M (missm)



Series: The World Beyond [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A touch of casefic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blackmail, Character Death Fix, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Javert's Redemption, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Repression, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are certain truths that are universal, though Javert has to learn that they are not quite what he thought. And so, when Valjean stops him from jumping, he finds that his life must be built anew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A fine balance

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Seine fix-its are my favourite thing in the world, and I've been meaning for a long time to write my own take on how it could happen. It takes the bridge/embankment as its forking point, and there will also be a plot of sorts, eventually. Chapters will be up as soon as they are betaed. 
> 
> Thanks so much to Voksen, Calvin, and Carmarthen for beta/feedback, and to everyone who's shared interesting and valuable thoughts on Javert's derailment over the months -- I hope you'll enjoy it.

_There are certain truths that are universal, immovable as the stars in the sky: that a man must eat, if he is to live; that he must sleep, if he is to heal; that he will die, sooner or later, whether he lives or heals or quietly fades away._

_To Javert, the rightness of his obligation to arrest Jean Valjean and bring him to justice was such an immovable truth. For so long had this been the case that when he found himself denying it, yielding where he had never thought to yield before, the very foundations of his life had been shaken, rendering it so tattered as to feel meaningless. Finding his dilemma impossible to resolve, he had been prepared to cut the Gordian knot, letting the waters of the Seine wash away his torments and leaving his judgement to eternity._

_Fate had not permitted such an easy way out, however, for who had come upon him there by the river, if not Jean Valjean? Fate and Valjean were one and the same, it seemed to Javert, their whims inescapable this fateful night in June._

_And thus begins our tale._

 

***

 

A hand closed around his ankle.

"Come down," Jean Valjean said.

The river was a massive darkness under him, the sky a massive darkness above him. Javert did not reply.

"Come down."

Javert's heart was still trembling. He closed his eyes. His nostrils flared. "Let go."

The hand tightened its grip. Javert could feel the power in it, heavy around his ankle, an anchor and a chain. "Come down, Javert."

"Let me go, Jean Valjean. Have you not taken enough from me yet?" he spat, trying to twist around and get a closer look at his captor. "The man of mercy, so enamoured with his own goodness that he will do his best to prevent wretched souls from destroying themselves. Even when they may destroy him in turn." He bared his teeth. "Let me go."

"Not until you come down," Valjean said. He sounded weary, as he must be. The stench of the sewers still clung to him, and the absurdity of it struck Javert once more -- a filth-covered saint, an angel from the depths, a criminal bent on saving his own pursuer -- what sort of world was this? Nausea rose in him anew.

"Let go," he snarled, tugging fruitlessly against the grip. With his luck, if he tried to jump now, he'd end up dangling from Valjean's hand with a twisted ankle. "You do not decide this for me."

Valjean sighed. "I did not spare your life in order for you to throw it away mere hours later."

Javert laughed at that, a terrible sound: the hysteria was evident to his own ears. "No, that would prevent you from feeling good about yourself, wouldn't it? The convict-turned-saint, all to no avail?" He paused. "I would have arrested you."

"I know." Valjean's voice did not change. "I would have let you."

Javert's shoulders slumped at that. He gave up looking at Valjean, instead turning back to face the river. "And that is why I must do this."

"Why?"

"Because of what you just said! That you would come willingly, that you would -- that you are... No. You should not be arrested. And who am I to decide?" He closed his eyes against the darkness. "Leave me."

"Leave you to what?" The hand did not loosen its grip. "To death? To eternal darkness? Arrest me, if you must, but come down."

"You cannot possibly understand," Javert hissed. "Do you know what it is like, having everything you have believed in proved wrong? Do you know what it is like, to be in such turmoil that you scarcely know yourself?"

"Yes," Valjean said, his voice very soft. "I think I do."

Javert had not expected this answer. For a moment, his mind reeled. He opened his mouth and closed it. "Not like this," he finally managed. "You couldn't possibly --"

"If you come down from there, Javert," Valjean said, "We can talk. I will tell you why I think I understand. It may not persuade you to change your mind, but perhaps... Perhaps you will find it answers some questions."

I do not have questions, Javert wanted to say. At least not questions of this kind. It was not true, however. His head was filled with them. He did not understand the world, he did not understand his own thoughts or emotions, and he understood Jean Valjean least of all.

And yet -- what right had he to deny this man his wish, this man who had been wronged by him, Javert, all these years?

The hand on his ankle eased its grip a little. "Come down."

This time, Javert yielded.

 

~

 

Valjean did not say anything as they walked through the streets, which were quiet now, the insurrection having died away at dawn. At first Javert was relieved, but after a while the silence began to grate on his nerves. "Where are we going?" he said at last.

Valjean glanced at him. "Back to my lodgings."

Javert laughed at that, a harsh sound that he quickly strangled. "The prey brings his hunter to the lair."

Valjean's step did not falter. "I already told you the address. And you came with me there, and you saw that I entered the house."

"It could have been a ruse," Javert said. Laughter was still bubbling in his throat. "You could have been leading me astray again. Jean-le-cric." But that was also wrong. Saints did not lie. Convicts were not saints, but this man was both. "You knew I was going arrest you."

"That was what I expected, yes," Valjean said. He hesitated for a moment. "That was why I decided to go looking, when I realised you were gone and the carriage with you."

"And so the prey takes pity on his hunter." Javert laughed again. Nothing made sense. Everything was wrong, and there was no way to be right. "And what a pitiful hunter!"

"Enough." Valjean's voice was calm, but there was a definite edge to it. "We will talk about this in the safety of my house."

Javert pursed his lips. Still on the run, the man was. Although – who would care, except Javert? He was not among the revolutionaries, after all; neither was he affiliated with that beastly gang of criminals, Patron-Minette, or any others. So here they were, the two of them: an old copper and an old con, locked in a dance of hunter-and-prey. And what was Javert now, if not the prey? Had not Valjean shown him mercy, did he not owe Valjean his life? Was he not following Valjean meekly, with his head bent like a convict walking towards his doom?

And again, what right had he, Javert, to be angry with a saint? None. His very anger was a sign of his wretchedness, proof of his failure, another of his many flaws -- he who had always tried to be irreproachable.

He could have been free from his dilemma now, he thought, swallowed by the dark waters of the Seine. No Valjean; no duty except to that supreme power, Providence. But this had been denied him. Very well, then: he would accept his punishment, the punishment of uncertainty and doubt, at least for now. He would follow Valjean to his house and hear his words. Surely there was nothing more Valjean could take from him.

They turned into Rue de l'Homme-Armé, entering the unassuming house in front of which he had stopped earlier. Valjean knocked on the door and called to the porter, and the door opened. He then waited for Javert to climb the stairs before following him, something Javert noted with a kind of detached amusement. As Valjean took out the key to his apartment, he turned towards Javert and bit his lower lip, his brow furrowing.

"Javert," he said. "I have a daughter – I beg you not to tell her..."

"A daughter?" Javert was genuinely surprised for a moment. Then he put two and two together. "You do not mean to tell me you actually kept that prostitute's child?"

"Her name is Cosette," Valjean said. "Her mother's name was Fantine." The edge from earlier crept into his voice. "I daresay you ought to remember her. I..." He hesitated again. "I have not told Cosette anything."

"Ah," said Javert, a harsh smile twisting his lips. "So you have deceived her for all these years. You certainly haven't told her anything about her mother either, I'm sure."

"What would you have me do?" Valjean's voice was so low as to almost be a hiss. "I have done my best to protect her."

Javert's mouth was full of bitter words, but he managed to swallow them down. In this world, where a convict could be a saint, who was to say that a whore was not worthy of respect, or that a whore's child was not worthy of protection? He could not bring himself to think anymore about the matter. "Well, then," he said, suddenly aware of how tired he was, how much his body was aching.

Valjean was already opening his mouth, as if expecting another argument; he shut it, giving Javert a long look. "You will not tell her?"

For a long moment, Javert could not think of what to say. Could he make such a promise? What if the girl asked him directly -- would he be required to lie? It seemed to him that already he was sliding, falling, from safety into the gutter, where nobody's word could be trusted. But on the other hand, Valjean was living in that world already, and had he not, excruciating as it was to admit it, proved himself greater than Javert and his law?

The thinly-disguised dismay in Valjean's eyes suddenly became unbearable to him. "I won't," he said, before he could think better of it. Then he could not help adding, "Although the girl might be surprised at the look of you. Not to mention me, a complete stranger... What are you going to tell her?"

Valjean, whose shoulders had slumped in relief for a second, tensed anew. Then his mouth tightened in determination. "I will think of something," he said. "She is probably in bed anyway, she and our housekeeper both. They are used to my coming and going."

"As you say," Javert said, resigned. Let Valjean have his way, let him take the responsibility for explaining Javert's presence -- he had brought him here, after all, away from the peace of the Seine. He shuddered a bit at the thought. Already the thought of the river did not seem quite as appealing as the prospect of food, and drink, and rest.

"Come," Valjean said, opening the door. The room they entered was hidden in darkness. Valjean struck a match and lit a candle: they were standing in an antechamber, furnished enough to function as a parlour. The other inhabitants of the apartment must indeed have gone to sleep, for there was not a sound to be heard.

Javert followed Valjean into the kitchen and watched him put the candle down on the table, revealing a room that was simple, but clean. Not quite sure what to do with himself, he ended up standing awkwardly in a corner next to a large stone basin while Valjean brought out bread and cheese and a small bottle of wine. "Eat," he said, gesticulating at the table. "Please. I must..." He looked down at his soiled clothes and grimaced. "I need to clean up. I'm sorry."

"I'll wait," Javert said. He might not be an expert on manners, but he was certain it would not do to start eating without his host present. This struck him almost immediately as a strange thought to have; still, he made no move to touch the food. "Surely you must be hungry after... that."

Surprisingly, Valjean's mouth quirked into a tired smile. "Let me just wash, then."

"Of course." Javert suddenly realised he was blocking the way to the basin, and hastily stepped aside.

While Valjean went to fetch clean clothes and towels, he sat down on a chair facing away from the stone basin, trying not to listen to the sounds of Valjean removing his ruined garments and filling the basin, trying not to think of the memories it stirred -- of convicts being undressed upon their arrival in Toulon, forced into muddy water that dirtied rather than cleaned; of the filth, the vermin, the stench of hundreds of chamberpots. He, Javert, had seen it all, had approved of it, even; of course the scum of the gutter should bathe in muck. He had never asked himself how they would ever be able to purify themselves. It had never seemed possible before.

No sooner had he thought this than the sounds of splashing water stilled. Then Valjean cleared his throat. "Javert," he said awkwardly. "I think there is still mud on my back. Would you mind --?"

Another fit of hysterical laughter bubbled up in Javert's throat. He barely managed to turn it into a cough in time. "Not at all," he said, getting to his feet. Surely this was the climax of the absurdities that had taken place the last couple of days: that he should stand in Jean Valjean's kitchen in the middle of the night, washing mud away from his naked body. Perhaps it was all a dream.

Turning, his gaze fell on Valjean's naked back, and his laughter died in his throat. Scars, old but still visible, criss-crossing the broad back, a remnant of unimaginable pain -- he swallowed, thinking of the floggings he had seen. Just, it had seemed. Deserved. But unlike the mud and the filth, these marks could not be washed away.

Inwardly, he cursed the scales that had fallen from his eyes; though whether he cursed their existence or their fall, he did not himself know. But all he said as he took a hesitant step towards where Valjean was waiting, his back to him, was, "Give me the washcloth."

Valjean handed it over without turning. His ears were red. "I would not ask," he said, still sounding awkward, "except my back hurts, and it's between my shoulderblades and I can't reach --"

"Never mind," Javert interrupted him. If he could not clean his own slate, could not drown his sins in the Seine, at least he could do this.

As he ran the washcloth down Valjean's back, he couldn't help but notice that Valjean was shivering under his touch. Not surprising, he thought darkly, and then he realised his own hand was trembling as well, ever so slightly, wiping away the last of the muck from where it had caught between Valjean's shoulderblades and the tangle of old scars.

He pursed his lips, wet the cloth, and ran it over Valjean's back one last time. The situation was still absurd, and he did not know what to do with it other than concentrate on this simple task, the movement of cloth over skin. It struck him that he had never done anything like this for anyone else. He locked away the thought as soon as it came. Then it struck him that the last time he had seen Valjean naked had been in Toulon, where he had just been a faceless body among many. He locked away that thought, too. The fact that Valjean was naked in front of him was something he barely allowed himself to register at all.

Realising his hand had stilled, just above the small of Valjean's back, he snatched it away and cleared his throat. "I think I got the worst of it."

Valjean did not move for a moment. "Thank you," he said at last, his voice even now. Javert put the washcloth on the rim of the basin and turned away, curling and uncurling his hands, an inexplicable blush rising on his face.

He went back to his chair and sat down, waiting for Valjean to finish washing and dressing. After what seemed like hours, Valjean came over to the table and sat down opposite him. His hair was still damp and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he met Javert's gaze without fear. "Eat," he said again, pushing the bread and cheese towards Javert's plate and uncorking the bottle of wine.

Was it an order or a request? It did not matter. Javert was already in Valjean's debt; it would be ridiculous to turn down such a small thing. He cautiously reached for the bread.

Valjean poured them both wine and helped himself in turn. For a while they ate in silence, neither of them looking at each other. The food was simple but hearty, making Javert realise just how hungry he was. He meticulously finished every crumb, then could not help glancing towards the bread and cheese on the table. Valjean followed his gaze. "Please," he said, pushing the food towards him once more.

Another slippery step towards the gutter, Javert thought, again giving in to temptation. But already it seemed to him, loath as he was to admit it, that this might be a gutter from which it was possible to reemerge, as Valjean had emerged from the sewers earlier that night -- though whether such a thing was possible for himself, he still doubted. But he was tired, and hungry, and wished for nothing more than a respite from the reeling of his mind. He bit into the food, chewed, swallowed. His wretched body was grateful, his tormented mind dulled into something resembling rest.

After a while, Valjean cleared his throat. "I would answer your questions," he said quietly, "if you still have them."

"Not now," Javert said without thinking. The last thing he wished right now was for the churn of his turmoil to recommence. "I will not arrest you. Do not ask me to explain it more than I have already tried to, not tonight, or..."

He trailed off, not knowing what would happen if indeed Valjean asked him to explain again. He could not go back to the Seine. He was too tired, and it was too late. Everything was too late. He was in Valjean's power now, no matter how little Valjean seemed to understand it, no matter how little Javert could explain it. All he wished for was rest.

A moment passed, and then Valjean nodded. "Very well," he said. "I'll offer you a bed, then. You shouldn't go back to your own lodgings at this hour, not after everything you have gone through."

The latter part of his statement almost made Javert snort. After everything _he_ had gone through -- and this from a man with those scars on his back, a man who had managed to carry a dying boy through the sewers from Rue de la Chanvrerie to the embankment of the Seine?

But perhaps Valjean thought Javert a different sort of man, a weakling, a wretch; and perhaps he was right to do so. For a moment, Javert still considered protesting, but the fight had apparently gone out of him back there by the river, and he could do no more than give a tired nod. "As you like," he said, then added, "Though a cot is more than good enough for me, if you have one."

Valjean, who had started to clear the table, paused to look at him. "Take my bed," he said. "I will sleep on the couch in the antechamber."

"Don't be ridiculous." The thought of sleeping in Valjean's bed only made Javert more ill at ease. "If anyone should sleep on the couch, it's me. There is no reason for you to give up your bed."

Valjean was still looking at him, his gaze oddly thoughtful. "I think it's better if I sleep on the couch," he said at last. "If my housekeeper and my daughter happened upon a stranger sleeping on the couch when they rise, they might be -- perturbed."

Javert opened his mouth again, then shut it as he realised Valjean was right. "Very well, then," he muttered. One more concession, one more step down the slippery slope, though what he was slipping towards he still could not tell.

He followed Valjean to a small, simple bedroom. Valjean fetched some blankets and a pillow from the wardrobe, took an extra candle with him, and bade Javert goodnight, closing the door behind him with a gentle sound that nonetheless reverberated for a moment in Javert's ears like the iron gates of a jail slamming shut -- and then all was silence. The room was covered in soft shadows, Javert was more tired than he had ever been in his life, and the bed was close nearby.

He sat down on the bed to pull off his boots, nearly sighing out loud at how soft the mattress felt under him. He put away the boots and took off most of his clothes, leaving only his shirt on -- it did not matter much, he thought, if he slept in it, if only for one night. He did not think about what the night's events and revelations would lead to the following morning; he had thought enough, and all the questions without answers would have to wait.

Any fear that he might be haunted by nightmares or plagued by scarce or troubled sleep soon proved to be baseless: Javert, exhausted and disarrayed, lying in a convict's bed with his belly full of the convict's food, slept like an innocent child.


	2. In deep water

The first thing Javert noticed as his eyes fluttered open was that the pillow under his head did not smell the way it should have. The scent was pleasant, but not his own, which perplexed him. His nostrils flared for a second as he searched his mind for an explanation. When he found it, his stomach turned into stone; he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to cover his face with the pillow before thinking better of it.

Jean Valjean, the criminal, the saint -- and he, Javert, incapable of arresting him. The duty which was not just, the law which was not fair. The world, a horrible place where there was no way to distinguish right from wrong. The convict's mercy, and his own acceptance of the convict's mercy. What was he to do now?

He remembered, dimly, the waters of the Seine -- but in the light of day, which was bright enough that he must have slept much longer than usual, it seemed like a coward's move, running from his dilemma like a thief in the night. No: if he had been wrong, he must try to adjust himself, try to learn how to be right, since he was clearly not above reproach. The resentment he felt at the thought was surely well-deserved; no matter which way one looked at it, he had done wrong and ought to suffer the consequences. 

It occurred to him that if there were different kinds of wrong, there must be different kinds of consequences as well. He was familiar enough with the criminal's fate, but what consequences were there for those who offended the higher law? He frowned, deciding to put away the question for later. At the moment he should concentrate on removing himself from Jean Valjean's rooms, where there was nothing left for him to do. 

Javert sat up, grimacing at the way his body ached, a legacy of the hours spent with the revolutionaries. He looked at his wrists and the chafe marks there and grimaced again; then he remembered the scars on Valjean's back and was instantly sobered. He swung his legs down and rose stiffly, pulling on his clothing with movements that felt as if they belonged to a man twice his age. 

As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his face in a small mirror on the wall and grimaced yet again: his eyes, despite all the hours of sound sleep, were red-rimmed; his neck had ugly dark-blue marks from where the rebels' ropes had constrained it; and he was in need of a shave. He now remembered that he had left his hat on the river bank.

Javert tied his cravat with determined motions, his mouth narrow: the world might be off its hinges, but that was no excuse to look slovenly. When he got back to his own quarters, he would need to have a bath as well as a shave. What he would do then... Well. He would decide that when the time came. 

Right now there was another challenge to be faced, namely getting out of Valjean's quarters without incident. As he pulled on his coat, he realised there were voices coming from the other side of the door. He winced, remembering that Valjean had the prostitute's child living here -- his daughter, he'd called her. Though it was hardly Javert's concern what Valjean did or did not choose to disclose, he had promised not to tell the girl of Valjean's past, and he was not in the mood for questions, nor for importunate chatter. But he could hardly stay in the bedroom all day. He opened the door. 

The antechamber was empty, the voices coming from the kitchen. Javert blessed his luck too early, however, for he only managed two steps towards the door before Valjean appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "Are you leaving?" he said.

Javert stopped. Valjean was in his shirtsleeves, looking still tired but otherwise not much worse for wear. In his face there was the same calmness, bordering on peace, Javert remembered from the alley, when Valjean had told him his address. He swallowed, his eyes wandering for a moment over Valjean's broad shoulders; again he remembered the scars. 

If some part of him had hoped, deep down, that the dilemma would dissolve in daylight -- that his mind and heart would return to their normal state after a night of sobering sleep -- this part was sorely disappointed. The impossibility was still there, and there was no way to go back. 

"That was my intention," he said at last, thrusting his hands into his pockets. If he'd still had his hat, he would have put it on. "I have imposed upon you long enough."

Valjean started to say something, but at that moment a young girl appeared from behind him, clad in a blue dress, her cheeks red and her smile bright. The prostitute's daughter, Javert surmised. He did not think he would have recognised any familiarity between them if Valjean hadn't told him: this girl seemed well-nourished and respectable, for one thing, and her hair was brown, not blonde. 

The confidence with which she advanced upon Javert was yet another contrast to the wraith he remembered. "So you are Inspector Javert!" she said, smiling at him. "My father has just told me how he came across you yesterday, after all the trouble that was going on, and offered you his hospitality for the night. You must be very tired!"

Javert bowed stiffly. At least Valjean had not told her of the Seine. Perhaps it was a matter that was already dead and buried -- he certainly hoped so. "I have slept well, thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, realising he had forgotten the name Valjean, and by extension the girl, went by. "And whatever inconveniences I had, they pale beside your father's struggle to save the boy's life, I'm sure."

To his bewilderment, Valjean's face lost its colour at his words. "Javert --" he started, but was interrupted by the girl's astonished exclamation: "Monsieur, what are you telling me? Father saved someone's life?"

"Why, yes -- or tried to, at least," Javert said, confused both by the look on Valjean's face and the girl's apparent ignorance. "A young man, no more than a boy. Dragged him half-dead through the sewers from the barricades, if I'm not mistaken, emerging by the Seine, where I happened to have a carriage ready. I assisted your father in bringing Pontmercy to his grandfather's address, though he was more dead than alive at that point -- what?" For Valjean was shaking his head, his eyes closed. 

The girl, on the other hand, was gasping, staring from Valjean to Javert and back. "Pontmercy? Was Marius at the barricades? And did you go there to save him? Oh, Father, you fool!" She suddenly flung herself around Valjean's neck, burying her face in his shoulder, and he put his arms around her, resting his cheek on her head.

This open display of affection made Javert thoroughly uncomfortable. Moreover, he had the unpleasant and profound feeling it was all his fault. He lowered his eyes to the floor, then raised them again at the sound of his name. "Javert," Valjean was saying quietly as he gently patted the girl's back. "Javert, I wish you hadn't said anything."

That much was clear, although Javert couldn't fathom why Valjean would want to keep the boy's rescue a secret, especially since obviously the girl knew and cared for him. "I apologise," he said automatically. And then, because his confusion showed no sign of abating: "But why?"

"Yes, why?" chimed in the girl, raising her head and pulling back from Valjean enough to look him in the eye. "Did you really want to hide it from me, not only that you know about Marius but that you saved his life?" She pressed her face to his shoulder once more, sobbing with what might be laughter or tears. "You infuriate me so much sometimes!"

"Cosette," Valjean said. His voice sounded strange, both sad and -- Javert could not call it anything but tender, ludicrous as the word sounded in his mind. "I did not want you to worry. But..." He paused, giving Javert a look that suggested there were other reasons as to why he had not said anything, and that these reasons would not be disclosed. "I'm afraid your Marius is very ill."

"Most likely dead," Javert added, and then bit his tongue when they both turned to look at him. It was all he could do not to glance longingly towards the door. "That is, he was very badly injured --"

"But still alive," Valjean interrupted. "And he is with his family now. I should not grieve over him, not yet." An odd look passed over his face. "He might live for you."

The girl lifted a hand to touch his cheek, shaking her head. "And to think you would hide this from me -- what you have done for him, what you have done for us both." She turned to Javert again. "I owe you great thanks, Inspector," she said, curtsying lightly. "If it weren't for you, my father might have got away with his ruse, and that would have been a very sad thing."

The sheer earnestness of her words almost made Javert's lips twitch. "Yes, well," he said, and this time he could not resist looking towards the door. If he was lucky, he might be able to slip away soon. 

Unfortunately for him, the girl had noticed his glance. "Oh, how rude we are!" she said, looking reproachfully at Valjean. "Here we are simply standing about, when the breakfast table is set and ready. Please, Inspector..." She turned her frank gaze back to Javert. "Won't you have breakfast with us? We have so few visitors, my father and I, and I'd love to hear more about the events of last night."

Javert had never fidgeted in his life, and he was not about to start now, no matter how much the world had turned on its head. Still, he could not quite bear the naked curiosity in her eyes. He shifted his gaze to meet Valjean's instead, and was surprised at the calmness he saw there. "Please," Valjean said, motioning toward the kitchen.

So again an easy escape was denied him, Javert thought as he followed them into the kitchen, not knowing how to avoid the request, or indeed having the energy to try. Well, perhaps this was another portion of his punishment: that he should sit here with Jean Valjean and his adopted child, the erstwhile convict and the daughter of a whore, that he should eat their food, drink their coffee, and listen to them talking -- a reminder of the impossible, the idyll he had been about to destroy. The idyll he still might destroy, if he could bring himself to do it.

Again, he thought of doing it. Again, he knew he could not. There was nothing for him to do but to sink down on the chair the girl pointed him towards, to accept the cup of hot coffee she put in his hands, and to decline politely when she offered him milk and sugar.

The meal was uneventful enough, if one ignored the continued senselessness of their situation. The girl asked question after question, most of which Javert managed to redirect towards Valjean, who evaded them with the ease of what seemed like years of practice. The rough outline of the journey through the sewers, the subsequent encounter on the riverbank, and the carriage ride to the house in the Marais were soon established, however, and Valjean did not look entirely displeased when the girl threw her arms around him again, exclaiming that he was her favourite person in the whole world.

"There is one thing I don't quite understand, however," she said after a while, her keen eyes looking from Valjean to Javert over the rim of her coffee cup. "Father must have been a dreadful sight emerging from the sewers like that, carrying poor Marius over his shoulder -- he couldn't possibly have looked like an honest man! If I may ask, Inspector, why did you decide to help him? Did you two already know each other?"

Javert winced. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Valjean tensing. The truth, always the truth -- but he couldn't now, he had sworn he wouldn't -- why must he lie? Why couldn't he lie? "We, ah," he said, wracking his mind. "We had met before, and so I recognised him, but -- I didn't know your father, I wouldn't say. I didn't know him at all."

It was not a lie, he realised. Hopefully she wouldn't want to know more than that. He glanced at Valjean, and felt both relieved and slightly self-conscious at the look of gratitude in Valjean's eyes. "It is true," Valjean said, as if echoing Javert's thoughts.

"Well!" the girl said, smiling. "In that case I'm very glad it was you who was there and not some other policeman, Inspector."

Javert bowed his head, not quite finding it in himself to share her sentiment. If it had been someone else there on the riverbank, where would Javert have been now? If not confronted with Jean Valjean once more, and with his own hitherto non-existant capacity for mercy -- what then? He had been happy, he thought, or at least not unhappy; he could have gone on that way for the rest of his life. But such thoughts were futile. "Indeed, Mademoiselle," he said, leaving her to draw her own conclusions.

When the meal was over, Javert rose to his feet and nodded stiffly. "Thank you," he said. "Mademoiselle... Monsieur." The honorific sounded less strange than he'd thought it would; for a moment he remembered standing in front of the Mayor. He cleared his throat. "You have been most kind." 

"It was our pleasure," the girl said, beaming. Valjean's face was as calm and inscrutable as the night sky; he nodded once, slowly. "Are you going to the station?" he asked.

"My lodgings," Javert said, bile rising in his throat at the thought of the letter he'd left behind before going to the river. Could he ever return to his post now? Could he do that, even if they still somehow wanted him -- a disrespectful, uncouth old policeman, who had slept under a fugitive's roof and eaten a fugitive's food? The thoughts started churning again, but they were cut short by Valjean, who had also risen from the table: "Then I'll walk with you there."

Javert started. "Don't," he snapped; then, with a glance at the girl, managed to calm his tone somewhat. "It's not necessary at all, thank you." 

"I should like to, however," Valjean said. "If I may." 

The calmness of his voice set Javert's teeth on edge. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Was this another form of punishment? To not be allowed to his own quarters alone, to have Valjean walk him around like a dog on a leash? He wanted to protest, but was again interrupted, this time by the girl. 

"When will you be back, Father?" she asked, apparently taking it for granted that Valjean would have his way. "I was hoping we could go see Marius."

"I don't know yet," said Valjean and smiled at her -- a warm, open smile, it occurred to Javert, nothing tired or forced about it. It was a strange sight, almost as strange as the idea that Javert should notice such a thing at all. "But not too late. We shall go and see him when I come back, if his family doesn't object."

"Thank you, Father," she said, reaching up to kiss his cheek. Then she smiled at Javert again. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Inspector."

Javert bowed, not sure if he could bring himself to return the nicety; whether it would be a lie or not. "Mademoiselle," he said again. Apparently there was no escaping Valjean's company. Well, so be it. The thought came to him that Valjean was the only thing even vaguely familiar in this strange new world; he dismissed it at once. 

They left soon after, Javert still hatless, Valjean in simple but neat clothes-- neither beggar-like nor uniformed this time, but rather looking like an honest gentleman, Javert thought sourly. The street was quiet and the sky clear; the world seemed ironically peaceful, as if no violent turmoil had taken place the last few days, neither in the city nor in Javert's soul.

They walked side by side in silence for a while until Javert could not stand it any longer.

"Well?" he spat. "Why did you insist on coming with me?"

Valjean gave him a long sideways look. "I thought it might be a good idea," he said at last.

"Why?" Javert laughed mirthlessly, as he had the night before; he could not stop himself from it, faced with these new absurdities. "If you are afraid of having my death on your conscience, there's no need to worry. I had no intention of going back to the river."

"I'm glad," Valjean said. It did not sound like a lie. "I would not see you dead."

"Heaven knows why!" Javert snorted. "You make no more sense in daylight, Jean Valjean. Which reminds me. What name did you say you go by? F-something-or-other?"

"Fauchelevent."

"Fauchelevent. That sounds familiar... The old man in Montreuil, I believe, the one you saved from the cart." He gave another harsh laugh. "So you chose a nom-de-guerre to remind you of your own heroism?"

"That wasn't quite how it happened," Valjean said, looking as if the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "It's a long story. Cosette goes by the name too."

"Be that as it may, none of it explains why you thought it a good idea to come with me. Do you expect to learn something of the police's movements? You'll be disappointed. I'm not sure they'll even want me back after -- hm. Or did you think I'd run off to the police station and report on you? When I have slept under your roof? When I could have arrested you at any moment?"

"Off the mark again," Valjean said, shrugging as if Javert's accusations were all the same to him. "I was simply in the mood for a walk."

"For God's sake," Javert said, exasperated, "you don't even know where my lodgings are! I could be living miles away, for all you know."

"Not likely," Valjean countered, "for that would be highly impractical, given how close we are to the Palais de Justice and the centre of the town. Either way, I'm used to long walks. It might even be pleasant."

"Oh, certainly." Javert didn't bother to hide his sarcasm. "Why shouldn't the two of us go for a pleasant walk together, chattering like old friends? Whichever way you look at it, we share nothing. I am -- at least was -- a policeman, an inspector, and you are a parole-breaker and a fugitive. Or you are a good man -- a saint, even -- and I am..." He paused and took a deep breath. "There is nothing we share."

"We share a history, such as it is," Valjean said, glancing at him sideways again. "And you didn't let me explain last night. I should like to, if you would permit it."

"Explain what?" Then Javert remembered their conversation on the bridge. He winced. "If you want to make a confession, you should find a priest," he said. "I am but another sinner."

"Call it what you like," Valjean said after a small pause. "But I should like to tell you nonetheless."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Valjean paused again. Then: "Listen, Javert," he said, very quietly. "I'm not entirely sure what made you change your mind about arresting me. But I know what it's like to feel one's certainties slip away, to realise the world isn't quite as it seems. One man taught me that once. I do not and would not ever compare myself to his wisdom or his goodness... but I believe that if I could alter my ways, you can alter yours."

The tone in his voice had changed, becoming reverent. Without knowing why, Javert pricked up his ears. "One man?" he asked, and then frowned at himself for asking.

"A bishop," Valjean said, smiling slightly, his eyes distant. "You looked into the events in Digne, did you not, when you suspected Monsieur Madeleine of being Jean Valjean? And you heard rumours about a convict who had stolen silver -- even though the matter was never reported to the police? But you did not learn, I don't think, the details of how the bishop of Digne took in a tired wretch of a man, who then proceeded to reward his hospitality by stealing his silver; nor did you learn about what happened when the thief was caught and the silver restored to its owner." 

Valjean turned towards him, and Javert saw that his eyes were bright now. "The bishop gifted me with the stolen silver, and with his candlesticks besides. And then he claimed he had bought my soul for God. What was I supposed to do with that?"

Javert's mouth had fallen open, stunned. "You stole?" he said. "From the man who had sheltered you?" And then, just as disbelieving, "And he did not only forgive you, but gave you the silver?"

"Yes," Valjean said simply. "I'm not defending myself, Javert. If you want to add this theft to my list of crimes, feel free to do so. I was a convict, a condemned, unhappy and mistreated man; the world hated me and so I hated the world. I tried to find work, I tried to find lodging: my yellow papers stood in the way. The bishop treated me with kindness, but I knew he was unusual and I did not trust it to last. So I stole his silver, and he showed me mercy which I did not deserve. But such is the nature of mercy, Javert; it is not deserved, only granted. And the world would be a better place if we sinners granted it more often."

Javert wanted to scoff. Indeed, if he had heard such a tale a week before, he would have. But he could not bring himself to do it. He was silent.

"And so," Valjean continued softly, "I was confused by this good man's mercy. I knew I did not deserve it. I knew, or thought I knew, that I was a wretch in the eyes of men. I had spent two decades under the lash, having my wretchedness beaten into me. I was good for nothing but hating and being hated -- and then this man thought my soul worth retrieving from the darkness. It confused me; it upset me, even. I could not bring myself to accept it at first."

His eyes clouded. He said nothing for a while. At last the silence again grew too long for Javert to take. "Well?" 

"In my confusion I did something horrible," Valjean said, looking away. "I took forty sous from a boy named Petit-Gervais. He lost them, I put my foot on them; he asked me to give them back -- I didn't. I scared him off. And then, when I returned to my senses, he was gone, and it finally became clear to me what I would become if I did not accept the Bishop's gift." 

He turned his eyes back to Javert, and now there were tears in them. "Someone who robbed innocent children of the money they'd earned by honest work."

Javert was silent. His mind was reeling. The story of the robbery he remembered from his investigations. It had fitted well enough with the man Jean Valjean had been in his eyes, the thief, the convict, the dangerous criminal. 

The thought that the same Jean Valjean could become Monsieur Madeleine, could devote his life to doing good -- it was still hard to grasp. All this saintliness, all this goodness, which he had always considered a mere ploy and which he now knew to be real, confused him more than ever. 

"You did not turn yourself in," he said at length.

"No," Valjean said. "I wanted a chance at life. I wanted to honour the Bishop's trust by trying to do good in the world. And..." The shudder was brief, but Javert did not miss it. "I could not bear the thought of going back."

They had reached a busier street and had to pause for a loaded cart passing by. Javert still did not know what to say. Two days ago, he would have said that a parole-breaker and a thief who escaped justice could never do good in the world. Now his eyes had been opened, but it still remained a mystery -- how, then, to do good without putting one's faith in the law? What Valjean had done seemed to him both dangerous and bold, like diving into the depths of the ocean without a lifeline.

"How did you know?" he burst out as they finally crossed the street. "How could you tell right from wrong -- you, who came from nothing and spent years... there? How can you do that? How do you know what's right?"

"I don't," Valjean said, smiling faintly. "I pray for God to tell me. But I know I do not wish to see you hurt. Not you, Javert; not anyone. If you do change your mind about what should be done to me... Who am I to tell you not to?"

"Spare me," Javert grumbled. "It's almost as if you are trying to goad me into arresting you." 

"Like you were trying to goad me into killing you." Valjean's smile was almost amused now. "I didn't and I won't. But I meant what I said: the decision is in your hands." His smile suddenly disappeared, and he looked away. "I have but one thing to live for, and soon she will be gone."

"The girl?" Javert said. "Where is she going?"

"Marriage," Valjean said quietly, still without looking at Javert. "If the boy lives."

"And?" When Valjean didn't reply, Javert frowned. "Is that all?"

"It is enough." The edge from last night crept back into Valjean's voice. "I have done what I could for her. Now there is a young man whom she loves; he will care for her in my place, and it will better for everyone if I keep my distance."

"It won't be better for you," Javert observed. "That much is clear."

"And?" Valjean echoed, his mouth twisting into a half-smile. "What's that to you?"

Javert had no answer to that. What, indeed? 

They walked in silence for a while. Then Valjean said, "I'm not sure how easy it will be now that you told her of the sewers, though. They will probably feel obliged to have me there. Even if I tell him..." 

He fell silent, his face clouding, and Javert's frustration surged like a tidal wave.

"I don't understand you!" he snapped. "You save people's lives and then refuse their gratitude? What is it you want? To martyr yourself? To prove you are better than everyone else? More capable of taking pain? For God's sake, send the girl away if you must, make her unhappy and yourself as well, if that's what you're after -- but you will not make me feel guilty for telling the truth!" 

He realised his voice had risen in anger, and lowered it with considerable effort. "No. I did not tell her of your sins; if you don't want her to know of your virtues, Monsieur _le maire_ , that is not my problem. God! I have met criminals who concealed their wrongdoings, but never have I met one who concealed his own good deeds! Who on Earth willingly leaves everything he cares for to go back to the bagne? Are you trying to drive me mad?"

Valjean stared at him as if Javert had just confessed to being a convict on the run himself, or something equally absurd. "I'm not doing anything of the sort," he said at last. "I'm only trying to do what's right."

"Then why -- oh, God." 

Javert put a hand to his brow, shaking his head. "To do what's right," he muttered between his teeth. "It all comes down to that. Not to do what is lawful. But how can you do the opposite of what is lawful, and yet be right? Stealing, lying, evading justice -- those are all wrong, and yet you are right, and I venerate you."

The last words, almost not audible, made Valjean start. "Javert --"

"No," Javert bit him off. "Do not ask me to repeat it, or explain it. It is not something I wished for, nor is it something I understand. Perhaps I have gone mad already. Oh, do not look at me so; I have already told you I won't go to the river again." He laughed, suddenly and sharply. "I would not destroy your gift. Ah, here we are."

They came to a halt in front of a low building, not unlike the one Valjean lived in at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. Javert straightened his back. "Well," he said, letting his mouth widen in a sarcastic smile. "I hope you enjoyed our walk."

"Certainly," Valjean said evenly. "We should do it again sometime."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Javert almost laughed again, more from frustration than anything else. "Are you going to turn me into a martyr and a saint? I can assure you that I do not have the makings of either." He fell silent, again feeling the weight of the last two days: the turmoil, the sewers, the bridge -- the feeling of Valjean's back under his hand, the sight of the old scars. He sighed.

"I do not understand you," he said again, very quietly this time, turning towards the door. "And I no longer understand myself."

"Javert," Valjean said behind him. "Are you going back to the police station?"

"I do not know." He pinched his nose. He must deal with that somehow -- how? 

There was a pause. "If you have nothing else to do tomorrow," Valjean finally said, "then come and see me in the morning."

So Valjean still did not trust him not to return to the Seine. Very well, Javert thought, turning back; it was his turn to be on parole. "Your daughter?" he said, then realised belatedly he had adopted Valjean's way of referring to her. He tried to cover his slip with a scowl. "If she is there, I might accidentally tell her about another of your good deeds, and apparently you are quite opposed to that."

"I shall take her to see the boy tomorrow morning, if his family will allow it." Valjean made a movement as if to offer Javert his hand, but stopped, as if fearing rejection; Javert was reminded of having refused the hand of his superior, back in Montreuil, and suppressed a shudder. "Until tomorrow, then," Valjean said.

Javert nodded. He waited until Valjean had turned to leave, following him with his eyes until he'd rounded the corner -- just to make sure he was gone, he told himself. Then he opened the street door and went inside. The portress was used to his irregular hours and did not bat an eye as he passed her on his way to the stairs, even though she hadn't seen him for days. 

His rooms were dark. He opened the blinds, letting the daylight in, and looked at himself in the mirror. He touched his face with his fingertips, gauging its state; it did not look any different for the fact that he had slept in Jean Valjean's bed, resting his head on Jean Valjean's pillow. He needed a shave, he thought, and a proper wash; he had not had one for days. Stripping off his clothing, he could not keep away the memory of a large stone basin filled with water, or Jean Valjean's naked body in front of it, strikingly powerful and shockingly vulnerable. 

The portress had placed water in his rooms, as usual. He washed and shaved, continuing not to think -- or rather, trying not to think. For he found, to his constant dismay, that he could not stop thinking, not now that he had begun; the floodgates were open and there was no way to swim against the tide.


	3. Old debts

It was ironic, Javert thought, that he had slept much better in Jean Valjean's bed than he ended up doing in his own.

After washing, shaving, changing his clothes and locating his spare hat, he had found himself driven back out onto the street by the turmoil of his thoughts. He had spent most of the day walking the streets of Paris, the constant whirl of his mind giving him no rest. Once or twice he realised that his steps were leading him towards the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, at which points he abruptly changed direction; otherwise, there was no aim or purpose to his wandering. 

When he came back in the late afternoon, the portress informed him that someone from the police had been there to enquire after his whereabouts. Increasingly aware that he could not bear to look any of his erstwhile superiors in the eye, still uncertain whether he was more repugned by them or by himself, Javert sat down and penned a formal resignation letter. If he was lucky, they might give him a good reference, he reasoned. The question of what he was going to do with such a reference -- whether there was any way at all for him to join society after more than five decades outside of its ranks -- was one he could not answer. Perhaps he might yet till the fields.

Having sent off the letter, he bought a simple dinner at a nearby cafe. The meal contained neither bread nor cheese, which made the thought of Jean Valjean somewhat easier to keep at bay while he ate. Upon returning to his rooms, he realised he was facing an entirely new problem: that of having a huge amount of empty time which needed to be filled somehow. 

There were improving books on his shelf which he had not yet read. He tried one of them, a pamphlet by a well-respected religious author, but found to his dismay that it held no answers to the questions that were still tormenting him. After fruitlessly trying to make sense of its morals for half an hour, he gave up, flung the pamphlet on the floor in a fit of irritation, and went to bed early. 

Unlike the night before, it took him hours to fall asleep, though he was fairly certain that Valjean's bed had been no more luxurious than his own. Tossing and turning, his sleep shallow and constantly disrupted, he rose in the morning more exhausted and more exasperated than when he had gone to bed the night before. 

One thing seemed certain: he could not stand the thought of going to see Jean Valjean. The mere notion made his turmoil ten times worse, sending his stomach swirling and his mind reeling. It would be too much, he thought, to see the man again so soon, to reinforce the shock when he had not yet recovered from the impact, like reaching for the flame while one's hand was still blistering from the burn.

He wrote a short note, simply stating that he would not be able to visit Monsieur Fauchelevent that morning. A while later, a street urchin appeared with an answering message, as simple and short as Javert's own:

_I am sorry to hear that. You are welcome here tomorrow, if you wish, or any other day._

_U.F._

Of course Valjean had to extend the invitation, Javert thought morosely. He caught himself wondering what the U stood for. 

The day passed much as the previous one had. He left his quarters and walked around the city, hoping not to be spotted by any of his former colleagues. He avoided the river, the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, the Palais de Justice. He tried to think of nothing and ended up thinking of everything. He curled his fists in his pockets and tried to forget the sight of Jean Valjean's back. 

It was no good.

Three days after the night his life had fallen apart, he rose even more tired than before. The day stretched before him like a desert; he could not bear the thought of the long hours that waited. As he dressed, he told himself he did not have to do it. He could walk somewhere else. He could walk there and turn back, and no one would be the wiser. He could even stay in his rooms all day. 

He went to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé.

The porter's curious look when Javert told him he was there to see Monsieur Fauchelevent almost made him turn back. Climbing the stairs to Valjean's apartment, he ran through his mind a lot of possible things to say, and discarded them all. Standing in front of the door, his heart hammering and his mouth curiously dry, he raised his hand to knock, then lowered it. Then he knocked. He had no idea what he was doing.

The door opened. Valjean stood there, his hand still on the doorknob. He looked paler than when Javert had seen him last, and there were dark circles under his eyes, which still met Javert's without fear. 

For a long moment they stood scrutinising each other, neither of them saying a word. Javert found it almost impossible to meet and hold that steady, calm gaze, and yet he could not look away. Then Valjean took a step back. "Come in," he said.

Javert followed. He had taken off his hat without even realising it, and now he was turning it around in his hands. The antechamber looked as he remembered it, but his eyes were mostly on Valjean, drawn as if by some invisible magnet. He cleared his throat, then realised he still had no idea what to say. "Well," he said at last.

Valjean gave him a quick look, then nodded towards a chair. "Sit down, please. I'll ask my housekeeper to make some coffee." He took a step towards the kitchen, then stopped. "Let me take your coat," he said, and Javert handed it over, along with his hat. 

They sat in silence, Javert in the chair and Valjean on the couch, until the housekeeper -- an unremarkable old woman -- had brought them coffee and a plate of pastries. Valjean thanked her and asked her if she would mind going to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire 67, where he had taken Mademoiselle Fauchelevent earlier that morning -- it was almost noon, and the young lady would probably enjoy a walk before coming home; it seemed that earlier visits had consisted mainly of her being confined to a chair outside of the patient's bedchamber, a trial she gladly endured but which still left her restless. The housekeeper glanced in Javert's direction, but asked no questions. After she had left, the silence was even more noticeable. Javert concentrated on his cup of coffee with a single-mindedness he had not experienced since before the night of the barricades.

Then Valjean, in turn, cleared his throat. "I'm glad you came," he said. "I would have gone to see you if not."

Javert tightened his grip on the cup. "Nonsense," he grumbled. "You can't possibly be that eager to see me."

Valjean reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "I got this yesterday," he said, handing it over to Javert. His voice was calm, but Javert thought he detected a strained note in it. "Someone left it with the porter. It might interest you -- it concerns you as well."

"Me?" Javert frowned, putting down his cup to accept the slip. The paper was of poor quality, and while the handwriting was legible it was also riddled with spelling mistakes. He glanced down at the signature first. "Fabantou?"

"A stage name," Valjean said. "You might know the man under the name of Thénardier."

"Thénardier?" Javert frowned again. His mouth tightened at the thought of what had happened a few nights ago: he had hunted Thénardier, a jailbreaking criminal and a scoundrel, and caught Valjean. A week ago, he would have said that one criminal was no better than the other. Now that seemed impossible. He had a fleeting thought that perhaps he had been wrong about Thénardier, too -- a thought he discarded immediately. His imagination might be lacking, but the thought of Thénardier standing in front of him with a knife, and choosing to slit Javert's ropes instead of his throat, was not merely preposterous, it made him want to laugh out loud. 

He shook his head. "Whatever is your history with him? Wait -- wasn't he the one who kept an inn in Montfermeil? Where you went to fetch the wh-- the woman's child?"

"Indeed he was," Valjean confirmed, a steely tone creeping into his voice. "Thénardier and his wife mistreated Cosette for years, while extorting money from Fantine. Her suffering was a gold mine to them, the child a slave. They..." 

He paused, taking a deep breath. Then his mouth suddenly and startlingly quirked into a grim smile. "They actually tried to blackmail me once before, trapping me in the Gorbeau tenement. You were there too, Javert. In fact, it's thanks to you that I escaped."

It took some moments for Javert to realise what Valjean was talking about. When he finally did, he wanted to laugh again. "Of course that was you," he muttered. "I should have known."

He skimmed the letter, and his desire to laugh died away. 

_Dear "Monsieur Fauchelevent",_

_Rest asured that I know who you are. I have contacts and I know where to find out Things. I know you are wanted by the law. I also hapen to know that the Inspector who pretended to hunt you when he came to my tavern years ago, also knows and that he hasn't arested you. Now I am not at all the sort of man to stick my nose into what goes on between two dear frends, but I know the importance of being discrete and I know you know that to._

_As one persewed man to another, I am planing to start anew in America, an andevor which does not come free to men such as myself. 10,000 Francs would not come amis._

_You have 48 hours to think over my ofer. If you acept, meet me at the place behind the Hospices des Incurables-Hommes where the Canal Saint-Martin makes a bend the night after tomorrow at 11 o' clock, alone. If you are not there, I will take it that my generous offer of discreetion has been refused and that you do not mind if the police receive words of your whereabouts and of those of your Inspector._

_Respectfully,  
Fabantou_

 

When Javert was done reading, he almost mechanically folded the paper and put it on the table. A sudden desire to wash his hands came over him; he rubbed his palms on his trousers and grimaced. "It's a threat," he said. "Blackmail."

"Indeed," Valjean said grimly.

"He must have seen us the other day, when you walked with me back to my quarters. I knew I shouldn't have let you... The devil! He must have found out your true identity somehow. At least he knows you are on the run. And now he thinks he can get his revenge on us both!"

"It's me he's after," Valjean said. "He never forgave me for taking Cosette away and depriving him of such a steady source of slave labour."

"He obviously has it in for me as well," Javert protested. "For all I know a similar letter is waiting for me when I come back to my quarters." He grimaced again. "Sheltering a fugitive is a crime. I have made myself a criminal."

Valjean looked at him sharply. "I did not ask you to."

"I know." Javert rubbed his temples. "What a scoundrel. What a twice-damned, cowardly scoundrel... And the way he goes about it! All oily hints!"

"He makes his threats quite clear," Valjean said. "His intentions cannot be missed."

"His intentions, no! But this is..." Javert gesticulated vaguely at the letter. "It also implies that we are, that is to say, that you and I are, well..." 

He felt his face heat, and was furious with himself for it. There was a long silence. "Yes," Valjean finally said. His voice betrayed nothing, neither amusement nor disgust.

Javert got up from his chair and started pacing. "It is intolerable. This creature, this criminal, this, this --" He choked on half the words that came to mind, well aware that only a short while ago he would not have shied away from calling Valjean any of them. "He dares to threaten us! He dares to think he can..."

He came to a halt, for a moment marvelling at his own vehemence. It was outrage at the baseness of it, he told himself, the cheap attempt at incriminating an honourable man; for such was Jean Valjean, baffling as it still seemed to him. But the implication that the two of them -- ridiculous, of course, and yet... 

The image of his hand on Valjean's naked back rose in him, as sudden as it was unbidden, and he swallowed, almost swaying where he stood.

It was nothing new. It was a side of himself he had buried years ago, as soon as he became aware of it, fully knowing that his desires were not compatible with irreproachability. It had not cost him much. His work had provided a purpose in life, and anything else had seemed superfluous; certainly he had never missed having a wife or children. At times he had even been relieved that his nature did not tempt him into gallivanting with loose women, or burden him down with a family rather than devoting himself fully to the law. Perhaps this was the punishment for his arrogance.

Had Thénardier, that despicable maggot, somehow _noticed?_ Or was it all conjecture on his part, intended to insult and drag Javert down, and Valjean with him? Valjean, who surely would rather die than think of Javert like -- that? He felt himself flush again, and thought his head would explode.

"Javert." Valjean's voice broke into his thoughts. "Don't worry. He won't have anything on you, not once I'm gone."

Javert spun around. "Gone? What are you talking about?" he snapped. "Are you going to run?"

"It wouldn't be for the first time, would it?" Valjean shrugged, as if it was nothing to him. "If I stay here, I will put us all in danger. That includes you, Javert, if somehow he can provide proof that you knew about me and didn't arrest me. Surely you know this."

"You are not going to turn yourself in, are you?" 

Javert ought to have felt relieved at the thought: the decision taken out of his hands, the dilemma resolved by Valjean himself. Instead he only grew angrier. "I did not refrain from arresting you solely so you could turn yourself in and go back to the bagne for life! By God, Valjean, don't you realise it would be wrong?"

Valjean stared at him. Then he shook his head. "If it is any consolation to you, I won't," he said quietly. "But there is nothing more for me here. It is better if I disappear quietly."

"And the girl?" Javert protested. "What are you going to tell her?"

"If I leave? Then perhaps I will tell her everything, at last." Valjean's voice grew thick; he looked away, blinking. "It might help her forget me."

"You are mad," Javert said, disbelieving. "You falsify your own death -- you run away from Toulon -- you dedicate years of your life to raise a child who isn't even yours, and you are prepared to leave her like that, at the drop of a hat? At the threat of a scoundrel who's just as hunted as you are -- no, even more! For God's sake, Valjean, I thought you cared for that girl?"

Valjean snapped back towards him; for the first time, he looked angry. "She is everything to me!" he said hotly. "Which is why I'd rather die than risk her future happiness. Don't you understand that, Javert? Have you never loved anyone?"

Javert looked away. "That's neither here nor there," he ground out, feeling oddly ill at ease and not knowing why. "And I still don't see why you have to go away."

"You talk about not understanding me, but I hardly understand you either!" Valjean said, sounding somewhat exasperated. "If it is as you say, and you feel incapable of arresting me or even turning me in, why not be glad I am about to remove myself from the equation and take the problem out of your hands?"

The fact that Javert had just asked himself the same question without finding an answer did nothing to improve his temper. "Perhaps I feel indebted to you," he snarled. "Did you ever think about that, when you spared my life at the barricades? When you held me back by the Seine?" 

"Then I absolve you of that debt! For Heaven's sake, Javert!" Valjean shook his head, pressing a hand against his forehead. "I never meant for you to feel indebted to me. I never thought you would..."

"No?" Javert started pacing again. "Is that so?" he threw out. "Do you mean to tell me you never felt indebted to that bishop of yours?" 

"That's different! The Bishop was..." Valjean paused; Javert could hear him take a deep breath. "The Bishop was a saint," he said at last, very quietly. "I'm just a nobody, a wretch, trying to do good."

Javert realised his hands were shaking with agitation. He thrust them into his pockets. "Do not," he said through gritted teeth. "If you are a wretch, then what am _I?_ Oh, do not look at me like that! Rather, you ought to tell me what good it would do if you disappeared and let that maggot Thénardier walk free, to steal and blackmail and do God knows what else..."

He paused, then said, calmly and deliberately, "You do realise that if you went away, he could still appear to ruin your daughter's life?"

Valjean blanched. "No," he said, his voice barely audible. "No, I'd make sure he wouldn't find her. Once she's married..."

"That won't be for months yet! You know what state the boy is in -- if he survives at all, that is! Would you take her with you? Would you take her away from the boy, when you went to those lengths to save him? You make no sense, Valjean!"

"Then what should I do? Pay him the money he asks for and hope he will keep silent?" Valjean again pressed his hand to his forehead, taking another deep breath. "Offer me your advice, then, Javert, for I'm at a loss."

In his life, Javert had rarely been asked for advice or sought it himself outside of the clearcut letter of the law and the teachings of his betters. Perhaps it was ironic that even now, his first instinct was to turn towards the very weapons of justice which he had himself discarded; still, he heard himself say, "The creature ought to be recaptured. He is a fugitive of the law."

Valjean froze. His gaze met Javert's and held it for a long second. "Why him and not me?" he asked, very softly. "I'm a fugitive too."

"And also a good man." Javert's mouth was doing the talking for him, his mind barely keeping up. "You do not threaten or kill or blackmail, do you? Now, I'm no longer a policeman -- no, let me finish! I'm no longer fit for service, I have failed to uphold the law, and I no longer trust the law, I no longer trust myself; and yet the world makes even less sense than I thought if this man goes free and you, Jean Valjean, do not."

Valjean looked at him again, his brows drawn together in a frown. "Then what should we do?" he said at length. "If we report the letter to the police, we are both in trouble. You too, Javert, for shielding a fugitive. They will arrest us before so much as trying to find him."

"I know." Javert thought longingly of his snuffbox, but knew he deserved it less than ever. He was tired of thinking, and yet there was no way around it. "Perhaps... Perhaps we ought to find him ourselves," he said at last. "And turn him in. I could do that. It would be my word against his, and they would believe me over him." 

"Even if he would be right," Valjean said, his smile unusually ironic.

"Yes." Javert could not deny it. Then he thought of the implications of Thénardier being right about everything he'd hinted at in his letter, and flushed. "Well, about the legal facts, anyway."

They were silent for a moment, looking everywhere but at each other. Then Valjean said, "Is there no other option?"

"Not that I can see," Javert said, "unless you do pay him off. Do you really want to do that?"

"If I thought it would work, I would," Valjean said morosely. "Men can change. But..." He made an unhappy gesture with his right hand. "I don't think he _wants_ to change. And I doubt I could make him."

Javert could not refrain from rolling his eyes. "The man is a scoundrel! The gang he associates with are villains of the worst sort. If you had seen the things they get up to... He deserves his punishment."

"Even punishment based on our lies?" 

"He's wanted by the police already, has been for a long time -- whether we lie or not!" 

Then Javert passed a hand over his forehead, suddenly appalled with himself. To justify lying -- to even consider it! What was he coming to? To knowingly lie to save his own skin, to be reduced to a dishonourable, selfish coward -- all because of a maggot like Thénardier!

Not only to save his own skin, he reminded himself. There was Jean Valjean, infuriating and impossible in his criminal sainthood, in his stubborn refusal to acknowledge his own goodness. Valjean did not deserve to go back to prison. Javert knew this, as surely as he knew that Thénardier did not deserve to send him there.

At length he said, "What would you do to protect her?"

Valjean's reply came without hesitation. "Anything." 

Javert nodded grimly. "Then help me find him," he said softly. "Let's see that blackguard safely behind bars."

What he did not say, and what he had no intention of saying, was this: he would see himself safely behind bars as well, and Jean Valjean on the run, before knowingly lying for his own sake. They would find Thénardier, and bring him to the law; the law would claim its prey, Valjean would flee -- for the girl's sake, if for no other reason -- and Javert's honour, such as it was, would be restored, not in the world's eyes but in his own. Through the clouds of confusion and exhaustion of the last days, it rose like a beacon of comfort: he was not a wretch of no morals; he still had some honour left.


	4. Those who falter and those who fall

Making the decision was one thing, deciding how to go on quite another.

They spent the next hour discussing, at times quite heatedly, the best way to proceed, fully aware that they did not have much time; that much was clear from Thénardier's letter.

They had two options, Javert said: either to somehow find and seize Thénardier before the next evening, or intercept him at the appointed meeting place. The first one almost ruled itself out, since the man surely had hiding places neither of them could even begin to imagine. The second might be their best bet, but Thénardier was not stupid, and he was certainly cautious enough: he would probably bring help, enough so that the two of them would easily be outnumbered.

"He had several accomplices at the Gorbeau tenement," Valjean said. "Are they still on the loose?"

"Some of them, but not all. His wife, at least, is dead." Javert frowned, thinking. "I doubt the old scoundrel is very popular these days, even though someone helped him escape from prison. He got a lot of them arrested during that Gorbeau affair."

He paced around the antechamber of Valjean's flat, rubbing his hands together as he weighed their options. The thrill of the chase was rising in him, a reminder of the life he'd left behind; he did not bother to fight it, not for the moment. "It would be best," he said, "to find out more about his standing before deciding anything else. There are some old police informers I can ask."

"Do you think they'll still talk to you?" Valjean asked. "If they know you've left the police?"

Javert paused, tapping his foot on the floor as he considered this. "They may not yet know. At any rate, they may respond to bribes." His face heated somewhat at Valjean's raised eyebrows. "It is common procedure," he muttered. "I never liked it much. Speaking of bribes, do you actually have ten thousand francs? If all fails, paying the wretch may be a last resort."

"I could get them," Valjean said, frowning in turn as he pulled out his pocket watch. "Though I may not get back here until evening."

"Where is it? No -- better not tell me. I don't need to know." He did not particularly want to think about Monsieur Madeleine or Montreuil-Sur-Mer, that old time full of suspicion and constant surveillance. "But make sure you hire a good wagon."

Valjean nodded. "I shall write a note to Cosette and then leave at once," he said. "There is no time to lose. What should be our next move, then?"

"I shall find out as much as possible about our man," Javert said, "and decide what needs to be done tomorrow night. Come see me tonight as soon as you get back. If I'm not there, look for me over at the Île de la Cité."

Valjean nodded again. His face was pale, his mouth a thin, tight line. For some reason the sight of his consternation made Javert's chest ache, a strange lump forming in his throat. He frowned at himself: this was not a time to get sick. Good God, as if there wasn't enough to worry about already --!

Shaking his head, he strode to retrieve his coat and hat. Soon enough, it would not matter. Thénardier would be behind bars, and he, Javert, would answer to the court if need be, and Jean Valjean would be far away.

"Javert?" Valjean's soft voice, coming from right behind him, made Javert stop dead in his tracks. He did not dare turn, and yet he could see no reason to be afraid.

"Be careful," Valjean said, even more softly. It should have made him laugh, but it didn't. Javert could only nod, once, still not turning. He put on his coat and hat, opened the door, and left.

 

~

 

The poor and crowded quarters of the Île de la Cité were no more inviting or palatable than they had been during all of Javert's years in Paris. Dirty women sitting on thresholds cradling infants in their laps, staring at the world with hapless, sunken eyes -- a clawlike hand occasionally stretched out, a "Monsieur, please" -- others dressed up in gaudy clothing, skulking along walls where painting flaked off, trying to make eyes at passers-by, cowering whenever they spotted a policeman. Unwashed children running through the streets, old enough to have escaped their mothers' clutches -- he remembered the one who had been at the barricades, the one who had revealed him, causing his capture. Strange irony, this, that he should now be the one to walk these streets stripped of any authority, a sinner amongst sinners.

For he still could not quite grasp the horrible thought of a world where irreproachable people were condemned to a life in misery for no reason. Even Valjean, that impossible saint, was not irreproachable -- he had stolen; he had tried to escape; he had broken parole and lived a life of lies -- and yet he was the best man Javert had met. Irreproachability, then, was out of reach -- not only for himself, but for a living saint! But were these people saints? Were they any better than Thénardier? Would they steal without thought, kill without mercy? What had made them what they were?

The questions which had been haunting him now swivelled through his mind with renewed force, spurred on by the sights around him. The maimed beggar in rags, rattling his cup and turning his ruined hands up for perusal -- the old woman slumped in a corner with a bottle in her hand -- the girl no more than eleven or twelve, pulling up her tattered skirts to show her skinny legs to any interested parties -- unhappiness, ugliness, crime! Who was responsible for horrors such as these?

Before, if he had ever bothered to ask himself the question, he would have replied, 'They brought it on themselves.' Now, he was forced to ask himself: how? Why? Who would willingly choose such a life?

A choice, it had seemed, all those years ago, if a poor one -- choose to protect, or to destroy. He might have blamed his parents for the lack of other opportunities, perhaps, but the choice itself had seemed clear. But now he could not tell who had created it for him; if, indeed, the choice had itself been a choice, one made too early and too severely.

Had there been other paths to walk all along? Could there be other paths for him now? He hardly dared believe it, and still...

Some of the beggars recognised him and drew away, glancing up at him with eyes that were nervous or wary, sometimes downright hateful. He did not yet know if he could find it in himself to pity them. He was not Valjean, who surely would have given away his own coat to the leper on the corner, or paid for the coughing, grey-faced whore to go to hospital. Where Valjean would see souls in need of comfort, Javert saw human wrecks. They had been claimed by the gutter; what options remained for them now? What hope did they have to ever rise from the filth? None -- they were as doomed as the prisoners of Toulon.

Then he remembered his own hand on an ex-convict's back, carefully wiping away the grime.

He shivered involuntarily, pulling his greatcoat tighter around himself. It was the cold, he told himself; here, in the dark, narrow alleys, the sun never reached. But the thought of his hand on Valjean's back, which had haunted him more than once these last few days, did not leave him. And when he allowed it to linger, carefully prodding at it once more, it did not make him shiver again; instead, it settled in his chest, with a gentle, curious warmth.

It stayed there, buried but not forgotten, as he went about his work that afternoon, though the results were not uplifting. The informers he knew of were either scattered by the recent uprisings or not willing to talk; at least one of them knew he was no longer in the police.

"Sorry but no," said the man, an old ruffian known as Charles le Chauve, named by some half-learned joker because of the bald patch on his hatless head. "I'll talk to the bogies because they pay me, but you're not one of them, you won't get anything out of me." He offered Javert a toothless grin. "Wouldn't have expected that from you, though. Toughest copper in Paris, you were. Never wanted to talk to me before. What happened? Did your bosses finally get tired of you?"

"None of your business," Javert said, glancing at his watch. Time was running short, and he still knew nothing more about Thénardier or his whereabouts. His mood was plummeting fast.

Charles le Chauve grinned again and prodded his shoulder. Javert resisted the urge to wipe the smirk off his face. "Or did you start drinking? Whoring? Who would have thought? An upright old devil such as you!"

Javert shook his arm off and bared his teeth in what might technically have passed as a smile but which he knew perfectly well came across as the opposite. "You tell me nothing of value, and I tell you nothing in return. How about that?"

"Worse for you than me," Charles smirked. Then his expression changed and his face went pale; he seemed to have caught sight of something over Javert's shoulder. Without a word, he retreated into the shadows and disappeared.

Javert turned, just in time to see a swift movement into the shadows at his left. With a frown, he took a step forwards, his hand automatically going towards his nightstick. It occurred to him that he was alone here, without any backup, that unlike all those other times he did not have anyone at his command.

He strained his ears, listening. There was nothing.

"Nonsense," he muttered to himself. "I'll start to believe in ghosts next."

Just as he was relaxing again, his hand leaving his weapon, it broke loose.

A swift kick in the tendon of his right knee, a sharp pain through his leg. At the same time, there was a vice-like grip on his arm -- he gave a grunt, struggling, but he was caught off-balance, and he barely had the time to curse his own flippancy before he stumbled, an arm around his neck and a hand over his mouth, face first to the ground with his attacker on top of him.

A second later, a knife skidded against his leather stock; he'd never stopped wearing it, and now he was glad. Javert twisted backwards and managed to get hold of the attacker's wrist; for a few tense moments they fought desperately for the blade --

\-- and then, just as suddenly as the kick had come, the ruffian's hand was jerked back, the weight lifted off of Javert, and there was a surprised ' _Oomph!_ ' from somewhere above him.

Javert rolled around and jumped to his feet, his body still tingling with anger and the rush of the fight. What he saw was Jean Valjean holding the attacker -- a pretty, vain-looking young boy -- by the upper arm, the youth writhing and twisting to pull free, all to no avail. Valjean's eyes were on Javert instead, looking worried. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Javert couldn't decide if he was relieved or irritated or embarrassed that Valjean had rescued him -- yet again! -- from a situation that, by all means, he ought not to have got himself into in the first place. He chose to concentrate his anger at the boy instead. It was not very difficult.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he spat, advancing upon Valjean and his captive. "You ought to be behind bars, you little piece of filth!"

The boy had stopped squirming; he was now staring at Valjean's face with a mixture of disbelief and resignation written plainly on his features. "You again," he muttered, dropping his eyes. "Are you following me or what?"

Valjean narrowed his eyes and looked the boy straight in the face. Then, to Javert's bewilderment, he shook his head, looking genuinely unhappy.

"Poor boy," he murmured, his voice soft though he made no move to release the would-be thief. "Didn't you understand anything of what I said to you?"

"What?" Javert spluttered, incapable of believing his own ears. Of course Valjean would give alms to paupers and fraternise with the poor, but to be friendly with ruffians and knifers? "Do you mean to tell me you know this... this... _specimen?_ "

They both turned to look at him. "I wouldn't say that," Valjean said, smiling sadly. "But we have met. He wanted my purse."

Javert felt a great urge to roll his eyes, but managed not to. "And you gave it to him, I'm sure." He scrutinised the youth, from the sleek black hair to the elaborate suit to the shiny shoes. "A dandy, a knifer, and a thief. If I'm not much mistaken, you are Montparnasse of the Patron-Minette."

Montparnasse narrowed his eyes and scrutinised Javert in turn. "And if _I'm_ not much mistaken, I'm pretty sure you are a copper." He twisted around to look at Valjean. "Are you with him? You must be one of old Vidocq's men, then. Should have known."

He smiled, all of a sudden, showing a rather dazzling line of straight white teeth. "So what can I do for you two gentlemen?" he asked, as confidently as if he still weren't caught in Valjean's grip. Probably he thought he could charm his way out of an arrest.

Javert scowled. If it were up to him -- if he'd still had the authority to do so -- he would have brought the scoundrel in; he had been irked by Montparnasse's escape ever since the Gorbeau tenement affair. But he was on his own now, or rather, he was with Valjean, and Valjean was still looking at the boy with a sad expression, as if he were pitying him, as if he hadn't caught Montparnasse trying to stab and rob Javert mere minutes ago. Javert swallowed, a strange angry feeling rising inside him.

"You've done enough," he said brusquely. "You are lucky that we have more important things to deal with tonight than you." He brushed off his greatcoat. "Let's go," he snapped towards Valjean, turning towards the alley opening.

"Wait," Valjean said. "Do you know someone by the name of Thénardier, boy? Or Jondrette, as he also calls himself?"

Javert turned back. Montparnasse gave Valjean a quick glance. "Never heard of him," he said lightly. "Can I go now? If you please?"

The thief was almost definitely lying, Javert knew. Of course Patron-Minette would know Thénardier under any name. But what could be done? Montparnasse was not their target; dragging him off to the police would not be worth it. He tried to picture Valjean twisting Montparnasse's arm back, making him scream, making him talk -- it was no good. Then he tried to picture the ways in which Valjean and Montparnasse might know each other, without much success. It all left him confused and strangely vexed. Damn them both, he thought sourly.

Valjean was frowning, as if he were having similar doubts as Javert with regards to the thief's truthfulness. At length he nodded slowly. "I'm afraid I don't have money for you this time," he said. "And I doubt you will get any from the Inspector." He glanced at Javert, then back to Montparnasse. "You shouldn't have done that," he said, his tone grave.

Montparnasse's charming smile stiffened into something more like a grimace. "Just let me go, Monsieur Babbler, and we can all do something more useful with our evening." But he was looking away as he spoke, as if he didn't quite want to meet Valjean's gaze. It couldn't be guilt or shame; Montparnasse was incapable of such things, from what Javert knew of him. He gave up trying to understand any of it.

"He's right," he said, nodding to Valjean. "We have more important things to do."

Nodding back, Valjean released the thief. Montparnasse glanced quickly between them, then disappeared out in the alley as swiftly as he'd come.

Left alone with Valjean, Javert realised he was still angry. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, not knowing where to begin.

"How did you find me?" he said at last.

"You told me to come here," Valjean answered. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

Javert gritted his teeth. "Quite sure," he muttered tersely. "He caught me unawares, that's all... How the devil do you know that scoundrel?"

"We met under similar circumstances as today," Valjean said, the faintest hint of humour in his voice. It disappeared as soon as it had come; his eyes clouded. "But it seems he did not understand a word of what I told him about prison, the poor boy."

His obvious distress grated unaccountably on Javert's nerves. "He is a thief and a murderer and a villain of the worst sort," he hissed. "No morals and no honour. Why do you concern yourself with him?"

"Why did the bishop concern himself with me?"

Valjean put a hand on Javert's arm. The movement was gentle enough, but it still startled Javert; it was all he could do not to stare down at the point of contact, though he could feel the warmth radiating even through his clothes, spreading -- much to his alarm -- towards his cheeks. He turned his face away, hoping Valjean wouldn't notice.

"You know what it's like there," Valjean continued, seemingly oblivious to Javert's reaction. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone. He's young; it's still not too late for him to change. What's the matter, Javert? Wouldn't it be better if he turned away from a life of crime?"

Thus spake Jean Valjean, patron saint of the wretches in need of salvation! Javert's mouth narrowed. Turn a young scoundrel away from the path of crime, turn an old policeman away from the path of blind self-righteousness -- all the same to him, apparently. It would be ridiculous -- downright preposterous, even -- to assume he held Javert in any more regard than the knife murderer who had tried to mug them both.

And why should he? Javert thought angrily. No matter what way one looked at it, Javert was humbled and disgraced, a criminal in the eyes of the law, a wretch in the eyes of Jean Valjean. The realisation that it was the latter that pained him the most only added to his vexation.

Very slowly, so as to make it seem inconspicuous, he moved away from Valjean's touch. "Be that as it may," he said, deliberately keeping his voice calm, "it is of little relevance to us at present. People here have not been very helpful. We still know nothing of the man we are looking for, and time is running short." He nodded towards the opening of the alley and they began to make their way out into the small, dark street. "Your journey was successful, I take it."

Valjean nodded, his face grim. "If nothing else works, he will have his wish. Perhaps that would be for the best, if indeed he is going to America, as he says he is."

" _If_ he is going," Javert muttered. "But I wouldn't believe a word that comes out of that blackguard's mouth. And you shouldn't either."

"No. And even if he were..." Valjean paused, looking thoughtful. "Everyone can change," he muttered, though Javert did not think he sounded entirely convinced. "I pray he will."

"Is that so?" Javert hadn't thought to say it aloud, but there it was. If they were going to have an argument over it, they might as well get it over with. "You don't have to tell me you have changed," he snapped as Valjean opened his mouth. "But if you really want to tell me a skunk like Thénardier --"

"Who knows?" Valjean interrupted him, more hotly than Javert had expected. "Maybe nobody showed him mercy or kindness, the way the Bishop did me? I tell you, Javert, if _I_ could --"

"But you are not -- you are -- I would not if you weren't -- damn it!" They had come to a halt in the middle of the street, and Javert saw that they had aroused the curiosity of various onlookers. With an effort he pulled himself together. This was neither here nor there.

"Whether he would, in some highly hypothetical world, be able to change, is not the issue," he said through clenched teeth. "It does not matter. He is out to harm you -- to harm us both -- and he will harm your daughter, too. If he goes to America, well! I do not envy them. But this is neither the time nor the place to speculate. Rather, we should concentrate on what to do next."

A moment passed when it looked as if Valjean would continue the argument, but then he glanced around, and obviously came to the same conclusion as Javert. "You are right," he said, bowing his head. "So what do we do next?"

Frustratingly enough, Javert had no idea. All of this was outside his experience, outside anything he had ever dealt with before. In the police there were orders, procedures, established ways of handling things; taking the law in one's own hands, as it could be argued they were doing now -- it still did not seem right. Moreover, it made him unsure of how to work, how to proceed, with only himself and Valjean to rely on. Again, he felt as if he were thrown out in deep waters to swim as best he could, with no lifeline in sight, except for the man beside him.

Javert sighed. "We need to discuss that. Somewhere more private," he added, looking around him. It was probably not a good idea for them to be seen together as it was; certainly none of this would have happened if Thénardier had not spotted them a few days ago. "My rooms are not far away, after all. We can go there. Probably not together; you never know who might spot us and what they might tell our man... Wait here for some minutes and then follow me."

He pulled out his pocketwatch and glanced at it. "Better get there before dark. Did you bring the m-- what you went to fetch safely to your rooms?"

"Yes," Valjean said. He waited as Javert left, striding through the mucky alley and pretending not to notice the beggars around him, the criminals, the wretches. Before turning around a corner, he had a wild idea he could almost feel Valjean's gaze on his back, as tangible and relentless as the press of a hand, but he dismissed it at once; the very notion was laughable.

 

~

 

It was better to wait for Valjean outside the gates, Javert decided. He retreated into the shadow of the house, pulling his hat down and his collar up: let anyone try to spy on him now, without being spied themselves! He still had his nightstick neatly tucked under his arm, and now his mind turned yet again to the incident with the thief Montparnasse. If Valjean hadn't come in that moment, who would have won the fight? The possibility of being left in a back alley, robbed and gutted by a vile streetrat in fancy clothing, upset him, but less so than the distinct impression that Valjean had not seemed to care at all.

His hands tightened around the nightstick, his mouth pursing. To talk to such a brute of redemption -- to offer him money -- ridiculous! There was no sense in it, no sense at all.

And yet, if Javert was being honest with himself, he knew he should not be surprised. His mind, which had given him little rest these last few days, started working again. Giving money to a knifer and a robber, hoping for the redemption of a blackmailing rat, sparing the life of someone who would see him back in chains: it was all due to Valjean's infuriating saintliness, the goodness which had broken Javert and left him stranded.

Furthermore, his mind went on with the same relentless honesty, it was selfish and conceited of him to think he could ever be more than a wretch in Jean Valjean's eyes, a cruel withered soul in need of saving. No, he had never knifed anyone, nor stolen, nor killed; but he had condemned, he had judged, he had doubtlessly destroyed more lives than Valjean's in his self-satisfied role as watchdog of the law. He had thought himself inferior, and yet superior because there were others who were beneath him again, a faithful mongrel taking vicious pleasure in baying at the wolves.

And even now, he could not bring himself to say he had only done wrong. Surely preventing people like Thénardier, whether Valjean's prayers would work or not, from doing harm could not be wrong? Surely protecting Valjean from his schemes must be a good thing?

The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Valjean in some perverse way _wanted_ to be treated unfairly, to confirm his saintliness in martyrdom -- but no, he seemed to find the mere suggestion that there was anything saintly about him deeply upsetting. And then there was the girl, and the way Valjean's voice softened when he spoke of her, and the way his eyes warmed and he looked almost happy. If Javert had wronged her mother the way he had wronged Valjean -- and this thought did not come easily -- then wouldn't it be fair to make sure she was safe, and Valjean as well? And wouldn't that be the right thing to do, as well as fair?

The sound of quiet footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Javert squinted around the corner, recognised Valjean, and stepped out. He unlocked the gate and waved Valjean inside. "No incidents?"

"None," Valjean answered. He climbed nimbly up the stairs in front of Javert, who could not help but note the reversal from four nights ago, when he had been rescued and destroyed both. Opening the door to let them in, he also could not help but remember himself asleep in Valjean's bed, and the immediate image, produced by his devilish mind, of Valjean asleep in _his_ bed made him flush. Lighting a lamp, he motioned towards one of the two chairs in the room. "Sit down."

Valjean did as he said, looking around him with casual yet open curiosity. Javert followed his gaze and realised how naked his quarters were, and how cramped, how small, even compared to Valjean's: the rooms of a man who did not have anyone in his life to care for. He felt oddly exposed, his nerves on edge. "Tea?" he barked.

At first it looked as if Valjean was about to refuse, but then he glanced at Javert and seemed to change his mind. "Thank you," he said. "But only if you are having some yourself."

His answer took Javert aback for a second, but then he gathered his senses and stomped off to the small kitchen, where water was luckily in place. As the tea boiled, he looked around his cupboards for some food to go with and realised he had none, save for a few biscuits he'd bought some days before and mostly forgotten about. There was also no sugar or milk to be found, and he could only hope Valjean was as modest in this as in everything else.

Balancing the two cups and the tin of biscuits, he made his way back to the main room, where he paused in the doorway, embarrassed: Valjean had found the pamphlet he'd thrown away the other evening, and was now leafing through it, a look of deep concentration on his face.

As he looked up and caught Javert's eyes, he coloured, putting the pamphlet neatly on the table. "I'm sorry," he said, turning away and putting his hands on his back. "I didn't mean to pry."

"Never mind," Javert said, though he still felt flustered, as if he'd been caught with his trousers down. He placed the cups and the biscuits on the table, on top of the pamphlet, avoiding Valjean's gaze. "It lay there for anyone to see, after all."

"I didn't know you read philosophy," Valjean said, looking at Javert with a kind of interested gleam in his eyes which did not make Javert feel any less self-conscious. "What did you think of it?"

Javert squirmed, remembering the way he had flung the pamphlet away in frustration, unable to make any sense of it. "I haven't really started yet," he muttered, "and either way, we have more pressing matters to deal with."

"Yes," Valjean agreed, cautiously taking a seat on the chair Javert pointed him to. "I suppose we do."

For the next hours they tried to make plans for the following night, discussing various eventualities, arguing about what sort of preparations were necessary. Since the chances of finding and capturing Thénardier at any point during the next twenty-four hours were slim, they eventually decided that the best option would be to meet him by the canal at the appointed hour and try to overpower him there. This was a risky affair, for they did not know how many ruffians Thénardier would bring with him.

"I wonder, however," Javert said, "if he did not expect you to show me his letter. I suspect he thought you might not tell me, perhaps to spare my feelings, considering his ideas of -- hm."

A thought struck him. " _Would_ you have told me, if I hadn't happened to come to see you this morning? Would you really have come here, like you said?"

Valjean gave him a long look Javert could not read before saying at last, "Does it matter?"

"No," Javert said, though he couldn't quite stop himself from feeling that it did. "I suppose not."

Another question was that of weapons. Valjean no longer had his gun, which had been lost at the barricades; Javert still had two pistols that were his own, having managed to replace them after the Gorbeau incident some months ago. "You should take one of them," he said. "You are an excellent marksman."

Valjean looked down. "I'd rather not," he said quietly. "If we can avoid it."

"Frankly, I don't think you have a choice!" Javert cried. "We are dealing with hardened criminals here, not gamins!" He took a deep breath. "You don't even have to shoot him," he went on, somewhat more calmly. "Just point it at him if need be, scare him out of his wits..."

"And what if it makes him or whoever is with him shoot first?" Valjean sighed. "Very well," he said at last. "But I can't promise that I will shoot. I'm... not even sure if I could, were I to try."

"I will not shoot either," Javert said before he knew it. "Not if it's not absolutely necessary. I have no wish to take the law into my own hands, not even with him, but -- by God, Valjean! If he even dares to..."

He stopped, completely baffled by the vehemence in his own voice, as well as the realisation that was dawning on him: not only that he had broken the law for Valjean's sake already and would do it again, but that the very thought of seeing Valjean hurt or threatened -- by Thénardier, by anyone -- made his stomach turn and his blood boil. The very intensity of his feelings disturbed him.

"We are not murderers," he said, willing himself to calm down. "Neither of us. But this is about our safety. About your _daughter's_ safety," he added, though a small voice in his mind told him this was a cruel thing to say. Well, unlike Valjean he was not a saint, and he would not pretend to be one. "He will have no qualms about hurting her."

"Then let it be so," Valjean said after a while. But he did not look at Javert, and his face was dark with worry; the set of his shoulders was tense and he did not smile.

Shortly after, Valjean left, saying he did not feel at ease leaving the apartment at Rue de l'Homme-Armé unprotected after dark. Javert followed him to the door. "Take a cab," he said. "You never know."

"I could walk," Valjean said. "It's not that far --"

"Take a cab. You can afford it." Even as he said it, he winced at himself, the tone of his voice which sounded so much like an order. But what was he supposed to do? "I shall see you tomorrow."

"Very well, then." To Javert's surprise, Valjean gave him a weak smile and offered him his hand. In an instant his mind again went back to the office in Montreuil, where Monsieur Madeleine had done a similar thing -- inappropriate, he'd thought it then; inferiors did not shake hands with their betters.

Now he hesitantly took Valjean's hand and held it, not wanting to be the first to let go. Valjean's hand was warm in his, and Javert had to fight back the impulse to run his thumb over the knuckles, to savour the feeling of old callouses against his palm. He swallowed. He had no idea what was happening.

"Yes, well," he said at last, not wanting the moment to end and yet finding he could not stand it any longer. Valjean gently loosened his grip and pulled away, and Javert's hand fell to his side, stupid and useless. "Tomorrow," Valjean said.

He left, and Javert locked the door behind him, bolting it for good measure. Then he walked halfway towards the table and stopped. There were the two cups, and the almost-empty tin of biscuits, there was the chair where Valjean had sat, opposite him, as if he belonged there, as if there wasn't anything strange about the two of them sharing a table, and discussing important matters like two friends --

Javert shook his head, putting a hand to his brow. The chaos in his mind was not abating; it was like a storm, wild and raging, with a powerful centre in the shape of the most gentle and astonishing of men. And against this storm: an even greater disaster, one which might have any outcome, and one in which he had nothing or nobody in whom to put his trust, save for himself and Jean Valjean.


	5. Hunter and prey

Darkness was hiding the Hospice des Incurables-Hommes and its walls in shadows as Valjean and Javert made their way along the far side, where they deemed the risk of being ambushed smallest, having been to look at the appointed meeting place the same morning. 

At one point a wall rose in front of them. Without any words, as silently as if they had done such things together for years, Javert folded his hands and crouched as Valjean stepped into them, swinging himself up and scaling the wall with ease, the fabric of his coat shifting and stretching around his waist and thighs. Once up, he straddled the wall and found his balance; then he reached down and lent Javert a hand, and Javert scrambled up in turn.

On the other side of the wall, the fields and old shacks between the hospital and the canal were eerily silent. They moved quickly towards the place where they would have to wait, sneaking from shadow to shadow like a pair of thieves. The walls of the old convent gleamed white and silver in the sparse light from the moon. A sudden gust of wind, cool for this time of year, swept over them as they crossed a pathway where the shadows gave way to moonlight. 

"This area used to be hallowed ground," Valjean said quietly, his breath against Javert's ear. "We are trespassing."

Javert shivered, from the sensation rather than the words. "Don't be ridiculous." He reached a hand into his pocket and checked that the gun was safely in place. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten." Valjean's voice was still low, his thread as quiet as a cat's. "I don't think anyone is here yet, I can't hear anything -- can you?"

"No." Javert fought down the desire to reach out, to feel Valjean's presence beside him, more reassuring than the presence of his pistol. Now was not the time to lose himself in confusing thoughts or emotions. 

Tonight would put a seal on his fate and Valjean's both, whether he could do this or not: capture a scoundrel looking for revenge -- bring him to the police somehow -- turn himself in if he must (and he did not really doubt that he must) -- make Valjean save himself -- and all this, without the shedding of blood. 

It was an impossible task, and yet he must do it, for the alternative did not bear thinking about. 

They went through the plan once more, in hushed voices; then Valjean went to the oak by the canal, and Javert moved behind a smaller tree some fifteen feet away. From there he could easily see Valjean and not be spotted himself. There was a danger, of course, that Thénardier would bring with him thugs to keep watch, and that they would come across him. Javert had no illusions about his own sainthood: he would do what he must, but only if he must. Again, he felt for his pistol, pulling it out and keeping it lightly in his hand. 

In the darkness, he could barely make out the immovable shape of Valjean, leaning against the tree trunk like the very picture of patience. The ten thousand francs were in the inner pocket of his coat, ready to be handed over as a distraction, or as a last resort. 

Keeping his eyes on the figure under the tree, he again went through the possible options. Violence would be necessary, to some extent; he did not particularly look forward to that part and he knew Valjean most certainly did not. But if Thénardier did choose to show up alone -- if he was reluctant to share the money with any accomplishes, and if he felt assured of Valjean's compliance, neither of which was impossible -- then it might be done: wrest any weapons from that scrawny maggot, tie him up with the old cuffs in Javert's pocket, haul him along to the nearest police station. After that -- well, it was another matter completely. He would not let his thoughts dwell on it. 

After half an hour or so, there came the sound of footsteps from the direction of the canal. A figure appeared in the darkness, narrow and skulking. Javert sucked in a long breath between his teeth, his hand curling tight around the gun in his pocket. Under the tree, Valjean did not stir.

The figure came to a halt in front of the oak tree. Valjean stepped out from the shadows and into the moonlight. 

"So this is where we meet again," Thénardier said. "Fat lot of good they will do you now, your fine words and your money!" Moonlight fell on his face; he bared his teeth, and Javert could tell they were rotten and decayed. 

"You do want my money." There was no quiver in Valjean's voice, no sign of fear. "Take it, if you like, go to America if you like -- and we shan't have to see each other again." 

"You're a fool," Thénardier spat. "America, with a measly ten thousand francs in my pocket? I don't think so. I'm a father, my fine Monsieur Criminal, I have a family to think about. You stole the Lark from me once, with almost no compensation. You will repay me now. It's only fair." He bared his teeth again, a ghastly grimace. Javert wanted to strangle him. "Twenty thousand."

Valjean's face was impassive. "I don't have that much money on me."

"Oh, what do you take me for?" Thénardier let out a laugh that sounded like a parody of simpering politeness. "I'm well aware I did not ask for that much in my letter. No, it's very simple: you will give me ten thousand now, and then you will return to your house and bring the rest." 

"You seem to take it my funds are as endless as your greed," Valjean said. "What are you going to do when my pockets are empty? Leave me alone, at last?"

There was nothing simpering or falsely polite about Thénardier's laugh this time. "Pockets such as yours never go empty! I know your type well enough." He spat on the ground. "All respectable and smug in public with your charity, and just as rotten on the inside as the rest of us, if not more, wallowing in your perversions." 

His smirk was sickening. "What sort of services have you been doing your policeman friend? Money's only part of it, I'll bet. Though if you are half the criminal I think you are, if you have been to prison, you are used to it. Maybe you like it, even..."

Javert tightened his hand on the gun, resisting the impulse to shoot Thénardier there and then. Oh, the thrice-damned maggot of a piece of filth -- 

Valjean's face remained just as impassive, however. "You told me you wanted to go to America. Take the money and go; ten thousand francs are more than enough." 

The edge which Javert knew from earlier crept into his voice. "You should know I'm not afraid for my own life. But you have daughters. This money is for them."

Thénardier spat again. "Ha! Not at all afraid for the Lark, or for your dear policeman! Or even for yourself! But we shall see..."

The click as he cocked his pistol sounded high and sharp as a death bell.

"You don't care if I shoot you?" Thénardier said calmly. "But you would not appreciate it if I shot your dear friend."

At that moment, Javert felt a knife against his neck, between his right ear and his leather stock.

"I wouldn't do anything hasty if I were you," Montparnasse murmured in his ear. "Let's remember, I would have won our last fight if not for your man's intervention."

Javert closed his eyes for a moment, but not before he'd seen Thénardier's revolting grin. "Very good, Montparnasse," he oozed. "Now get him out of there."

"You really should not have let me know you were looking for my colleague here, not when your friend Charles was around to tell me who you were and let me put two and two together." The blade poked against his skin, as a reminder of how easily it could break through. "Leave your pistol on the ground."

Javert quickly thought through his options. Try to shoot Thénardier, who was still aiming his gun at Valjean? Too much risk -- and even if he did succeed, that would leave Valjean with Montparnasse, who had just proved himself to be a lost case once and for all. Gritting his teeth, he let his gun drop to the ground. 

Montparnasse poked at him again. Javert stiffly moved out from behind the bushes, still with the blade at his neck. He felt Valjean's eyes on him, but could not bring himself to meet them. Some fine guard, some fine protector! He had not even heard Montparnasse approach, and whether that be due to the thief's silent movements or his own preoccupations did not matter; he had failed, again, and this time there could be no doubt that his mistake was unforgivable. 

"So," Thénardier said, his smirk uglier than ever. "Your faithful friend wouldn't let you come here alone, just as I thought."

He was keeping his eyes at Valjean as he spoke, still pointing the gun towards him. "You have a weapon too, I'll bet," he said. "Take it out and drop it."

Valjean did so. Thénardier grinned. Javert measured the distance between the two again. Only a few feet, but still -- he gritted his teeth again, cursing his own clumsiness, cursing the ungrateful brat to whom Valjean's generosity apparently meant nothing. 

"You're not very good at hiding the truth, ex-Inspector," Montparnasse added. Javert did not have to turn his head to know he was smirking. "As if you would ever let me go if there had been the slightest possibility for you to arrest me -- oh yes! I know you're all slavering to get your hands on me!" 

His laugh was pearly and clear, unlike Thénardier's, but Javert thought he had never heard an uglier sound. "No, it was plain enough you had something to hide, both you and Monsieur Babbler here. Not news to you he was a convict, I suppose?" This time, the laugh was low, lewd. "Wouldn't surprise me if you liked a bit of rough trade..."

"Enough," Thénardier said, still with his eyes on Valjean, who had not moved. "You should know better than to attempt such a subterfuge. Really, I'm disappointed with you. But that doesn't matter. You'll give me the money. Then you'll go and fetch the rest. If you don't..." He jerked his head in Montparnasse's and Javert's direction. "So much the worse for your friend."

Javert thought fast. They were currently equally matched in number, if not in weapons. If there was any hope at all of turning the situation to their benefit, they must act now, and it all depended on whether Thénardier could be distracted.

"Your plan is not going to work," he said, hoping the sarcasm in his voice would cover the tenseness. "I'm not his friend." 

Thénardier's eyes did not move from Valjean. "Really now."

"Really." Javert ignored the press of Montparnasse's knife, which had increased ever so slightly, like a warning. "For years, he's been longing for the chance to get rid of me." The fact that this was what he himself had believed less than a week ago struck him; he ignored it. "He'll probably thank you for it."

He dared not look at Valjean, who had not made any sound or move to protest -- at least he understood Javert's purpose, then. Thénardier, on the other hand, had narrowed his eyes. "Nice try."

"You could ask him," Javert said. "I have made his life hell. I am a danger to him, just as much as you are." He licked his dry lips. "In fact, how do you know he didn't force me here hoping you'd kill me so he wouldn't have to?"

It was a ridiculous thing to say, of course, but it was apparent the possibility, nonsensical as it was, hadn't even struck Thénardier. His eyes swept away from Valjean, only for a moment, and then back. "We should find out," he said, his voice very low. "Montparnasse, give the Inspector a taste of your knife. You could cut off his ear to start with."

"Don't do it, boy," said Valjean, his voice just as low. He turned towards them both, seemingly heedless of Thénardier's threatening wave of the gun. "Remember what I told you."

"Shut up!" Thénardier's voice was a mere hiss. "Do it, Montparnasse! Draw some blood and let them see we mean business." 

Montparnasse's blade pressed against Javert's ear, as cold and sharp as ice. Javert steeled himself against the pain which would come, as surely and inexorably as the turning of the stars. If only, he thought, digging his nails into his palms, if only Valjean would not do anything reckless...

"Do it," Thénardier ordered again, almost growling now. The blade trembled, pressed, but did not break skin, and Javert could only take it to mean that the thief was _hesitating_ \-- 

"Do it!" 

Thénardier's voice had risen to a shout. He was staring at Montparnasse now, his eyes narrow and furious -- and just as Javert realised he'd taken his eyes away from Valjean, several things happened. 

Valjean, who had been standing still as a statue, suddenly burst into movement, aiming for Thénardier's gun. Thénardier turned with a snarl, and Valjean knocked the gun out of his hands, but the movement was too abrupt -- Thénardier, a weaker man by far, managed a hard shove that pushed him off-balance, and Javert's body sprung into action, all careful considerations gone.

Twisting away from Montparnasse's grip, he stomped hard at the thief's foot, and, lunging forward, dragged Thénardier to the ground. Thénardier's dirty boot hit him in the face, Javert aimed a knee at his groin; and for a few incomprehensible seconds everything was a confusing blur of shouts and grunts and fists, he did not know where anyone or anything was --

\-- and then there was the sound of a gun being fired.

" _Valjean!_ "

The cry tore itself from Javert's throat and rung in his ear. As the smoke cleared, he sat up, his heart hammering: Valjean was lying a few feet away, against the tree trunk -- was he hit? His face was pale, his eyes closed -- Javert's heart stopped for a moment, and then he saw Valjean's eyelids twitch. The relief he felt was so great it made him dizzy. 

He looked sideways, and saw that Thénardier was lying on the ground not far from Valjean; his body was completely still, and in the moonlight Javert realised that his neck was covered in blood, as if blown apart by a bullet. He repressed a shudder. So that was what the devil had come to. 

Then a swift movement to his left turned his blood cold all over again: Montparnasse was approaching Valjean, fast, gun still in hand. 

Javert cast desperately about with his eyes; seeing Valjean's pistol lying only a couple feet away, he made a grab for it and caught it just as Montparnasse was crouching down next to the unconscious body by the tree.

Javert got to his feet and cocked the gun with hands that strangely did not shake.

"Touch him," he said through gritted teeth, "and you are a dead man."

Montparnasse froze, then turned slowly. In his left hand was the gun, in his right a bundle of banknotes. 

"Take it easy," he said, eyeing Javert's gun warily. He waved the banknotes a little. "This is what I was after."

Javert did not move. "Get away from him. And drop the gun."

With a shrug that seemed too graceful to be real, Montparnasse got to his feet, pocketing the money. He pocketed the gun, too, rather than drop it; at Javert's threatening wave he simply raised his eyebrows.

"Take it easy," he said again, then glanced down at Valjean. "It would have been easier to kill you all," he muttered, as if to himself, sounding almost puzzled. 

"Too late," Javert said, noting how easily the old coldness slipped into his voice. "Or too incompetent, perhaps. I suppose you missed?" He raised his eyebrows in turn. "Either way, none of this would make you look good in the eyes of your fellows."

Montparnasse's mouth twisted. "The old goat was no good anyway, and far too greedy. I'd have rid myself of him later, if you two hadn't insisted on making such a mess here." He looked away. "Only dregs left in this town. America sounds promising. Or London."

Javert bared his teeth in his practiced not-smile. "Best of luck. Now." He took a step forward, gun firmly aimed at Montparnasse's chest. "Clear out."

Unexpectedly, Montparnasse glanced downwards again. A strange expression crossed his features. 

"You can tell him it's all right," he said, voice low. "It's probably the last one, and it's not as if anyone cares. Guess it counts as a favour."

"A favour." Javert almost laughed. He looked down as well, at Valjean's pale face, his closed eyes, resisting the urge to crouch down and touch him -- he would not do that in front of Montparnasse. "It won't make him happy," he finally said, more tired than he had been since the night by the Seine. "He abhors killing."

Montparnasse gave another shrug. "His problem." 

He looked down at Valjean one last time, and then he disappeared into the shadows and was gone. 

Wasting not a second more, Javert pocketed the gun and knelt down by Valjean's side. Blood was trickling down from a cut on his brow, and Javert fished out his handkerchief and pressed it against the bleeding wound -- a mere graze, it was, a fact which sent another wave of relief through him. 

"Come," he muttered, smoothing away Valjean's hair from his brow, then pressing his hand against his cheek. "Wake up, Valjean, wake up..."

After some long moments Valjean stirred in Javert's grip, opening his eyes. "Javert?" he muttered. "What --"

Then he suddenly leaned over to his side, and Javert jerked back just in time as Valjean was violently sick on the ground next to them. 

"Forgive me," Valjean muttered, shuddering, his eyes sliding shut again. "I did not mean..."

Javert's hand somehow found its way back to Valjean's cheek. He did not spare it a thought. "You probably have a concussion -- you hit your head on that tree trunk, I'll wager. Can you walk, do you think? We should get out of here."

If Valjean wondered what had happened to their foes, he did not voice it, only nodded, resigned, letting Javert help him to his feet. Together they started making their way away from the canal, in the opposite direction of where they had come from, a route without any walls to climb. Valjean was still not well; he was leaning heavily against Javert's side, Javert supporting him with an arm around his waist. 

Valjean's body so close to his, his uneven breathing so loud in Javert's ears, his hair brushing against Javert's cheek -- yet other things he carefully did not think about as they stumbled along. His thoughts could lead nowhere good, and if there was something else stirred in him, something deeper than thought, he did not allow himself to acknowledge it: not here, not now, not until this night was over and he could breathe freely again. 

At last they reached the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin. There was traffic here, including cabs, and he waved for one with his free arm. Thankfully, a fiacre halted within minutes. He managed to get Valjean into it, asked the driver for a slip of paper, and, stepping away from the wagon, fumbled in his pocket for a pencil. 

In case someone familiar with his handwriting should receive the note, he scribbled down the few words with his left hand, barely rendering them intelligible. A few moments later, he was in the cab beside Valjean, who'd drifted back into unconsciousness, his note and a coin in the care of a street urchin on whom he now depended to inform the police that on the bank of the Canal Saint-Martin, near the Marché au Charbon, lay the corpse of a wanted man called Thénardier, and there was reason to believe the felon Montparnasse, who was now on the run, was his killer. 

They might not do anything, Javert thought tiredly, staring out into the dark streets, Valjean breathing silently beside him, eyes closed. A scoundrel killed by another scoundrel: such things happened every day, and no one would be the sadder. He, who had always prided himself on his ruthless devotion to the law, wouldn't either -- not before, not now. 

Certainly, he would have been angered that Thénardier had escaped justice, and even now he couldn't bring himself to rejoice in the night's events. But this was no ideal world. There was no such thing as irreproachability. There had never been such a thing as irreproachability. 

The police would come to investigate, if only to make sure Thénardier was gone for good, and they would add another murder to Montparnasse's list of crimes, and write it off as the gutter eating its own. Montparnasse would spend the ten thousand francs on fine clothes, in America or London or elsewhere, and then go on stealing and killing -- Valjean's influence could only go so far. Crime would perpetuate itself, suffering beget suffering. He saw it clearly, and he did not know how to stop it.

And yet --

Valjean's head was resting against his shoulder now, a sign of injury and exhaustion rather than trust, but Javert still dared not move. Every time the carriage turned, they'd bump against each other, and Javert was jolted, and Valjean never woke, and it was the longest carriage ride he could ever remember having taken, except for the one a few nights ago, when his life had gone off its tracks.

But the warmth in his chest, rising and falling with each puff of Valjean's breath against his cheek -- he could not deny it, nor banish it, nor condemn it. Above the gutter and the crime, the blackmail and the murders and the petty squalor, there was something else, something that shimmered and fluttered in the small compartment, created by the closeness of their bodies, intangible and yet utterly real. 

If this was his punishment, Javert thought, folding his hands in his lap to keep them still, he would endure it, and if it was something else, he would accept it. He was not irreproachable, more than anyone else. He would have to live with tonight's events, and so would Valjean -- and, even in the deepest recesses of his mind and heart, he still did not know what he could have done differently.


	6. Jean Valjean in disarray

Rue de l'Homme-Armé was quiet and dark. Javert shook Valjean awake; he tried to do so gently, but gentleness was unfamiliar to him, and awkward, like boots that did not quite fit. "We need to get you inside," he muttered, waving for the driver to come help. Valjean groaned as they manoeuvred him out of the carriage, but he managed to walk the few feet towards the door. Javert paid the driver and called for the porter, who hurried out as soon as he realised what was going on.

"Never seen Monsieur Fauchelevent in this state," the porter said worriedly as they made their way up the stairs. "What happened? Ruffians?"

"Yes," Javert said. "The worst sort." 

"You should report it to the police," the man suggested, making Javert want to laugh. "Right, here we are."

The elderly housekeeper, whose name Javert had forgotten, opened for them, exclaiming loudly as she realised the state Valjean was in. The girl Cosette came running too, and between the four of them they managed to get Valjean inside and into his bedroom, where they laid him down on the bed, and Cosette pulled off his boots and put a blanket over him. As soon as he was on his back, his eyes fell shut and he was unconscious once more. This caused some general fuss, but Javert managed to calm them all down, sending the porter back to bed and assuring him they would seek out a doctor if need be. 

While the housekeeper went to heat water to clean Valjean's bruise properly, Cosette crouched by her father's side. "What happened, Inspector?" she asked, naked anguish in her voice. "Is he going to live?"

"He'll live," Javert said, almost surprised at the calm in his own voice. "It's a concussion, I think, but he'll recover. Your father is a very strong man."

She nodded. "I'll check his pulse." 

Before Javert could think of stopping her, she opened Valjean's cuff and rolled it up. A strong forearm was revealed, lines of muscle, a dust of white hair over skin turned golden by the lamplight -- again, he remembered Valjean's body in the kitchen, naked and uncovered, strength set off by vulnerability, and the sight and memory combined caught Javert unawares. 

Swallowing at the sudden and inconvenient heat rushing through his body -- what sort of beast was he, to even think about an injured man with lust! -- he looked away, only to meet the eyes of the girl and see the odd look on her face. 

He froze for a moment, certain she had somehow read his thoughts, but then he followed her gaze and saw that it was on Valjean's wrists, the scars there; he saw her mouth tighten and her cheeks pale and her eyes glitter as with unshed tears.

Javert did not know this girl. He had barely met her; she was a stranger to him; all he knew of her was Valjean's tender words and the look in his eyes, and the faint memory of a pitiful prostitute in Montreuil. But this stranger's pain at seeing something of the only father she had ever known revealed in such a way -- and the thought of what this pain would mean to Valjean -- it hit him, heavily and overwhelmingly; he felt as if he couldn't breathe, as if her shock had somehow transferred itself to him, gaining momentum in doing so. He felt as if he were gazing at Valjean as if through her eyes, and at her as if through Valjean's, and their joint sorrow took his breath away. 

She bent her head, stroking her father's wrist gently. "It feels normal," she said, and though Javert could not see her face anymore, he thought she might still be close to tears. But she had not recoiled from the sight, not shuddered in revulsion or anger, and again Javert found himself ashamed of his own arrogance, his unflinching belief in his own infallibility. 

The girl had looked past those scars, to the man who had raised her, whereas Javert's eyes, before, would have strayed no further -- not towards the question of right and wrong, not to the suffering behind those scars, or to the possibility that the one who bore them might have paid for his crimes, and paid, and paid again.

Abruptly, Javert got to his feet. He went out on the landing, in desperate search of cool night air to calm his thoughts. Going back into that room suddenly seemed impossible. The prospect of returning to his own empty lodgings was slightly less so, but strangely unappealing. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he touched his left shoulder, where Valjean's head had rested earlier. God! What was happening to him?

He had just made his decision to leave when Cosette opened the door. "You will stay here with us tonight, won't you, Inspector?"

"I..." Javert's resolve was slipping; he did not want to meet her eyes. "I'm not sure your father would appreciate that," he said. "I have already intruded upon your hospitality once this last week."

"Nonsense." Quietly she stepped out on the landing and closed the door behind her. "Inspector," she said, her voice very low. "You never told me where you and my father first met."

"No," Javert said, feeling as if a trap was being closed about him. "I didn't."

"Will you tell me now?"

He shook his head. "I promised I wouldn't," he said, wincing at how cowardly it sounded: he might as well have betrayed his promise to Valjean in revealing its existence.

"Of course you did." She bit her lip. The pained look returned to her eyes, again causing Javert's insides to ache in new and unpleasant sympathy. "Then stay, at least," she said at length. "For his sake."

At those words, Javert was helpless to protest.

He followed her back into Valjean's bedroom, watched her kneel by her father's side and stroke his hair back from his brow -- as Javert had done earlier, when looking at the graze. His fingers tingled with the memory of it; he felt like a thief. 

The girl saw him twitch and nodded towards the armchair the porter had brought into the room. "Have a seat," she said, and then, kindly, to the housekeeper, who was hovering by the door: "Go to bed, Toussaint. The Inspector and I will look after Monsieur tonight."

With just the three of them in the room, silence fell, only broken by Valjean's breathing. Cosette studied him, a frown on her forehead. "We should wake him up soon," she said. "The nuns said it could be dangerous, letting someone sleep off a concussion."

"Wait." Javert felt terrified all of a sudden. He wanted to disappear, and yet he could not bear the thought of leaving. "Mademoiselle, your... your father is a good man," he said at last. He could not say more than that.

She studied him for a second, then nodded. "I know."

Again smoothing back Valjean's hair, she leaned in and spoke softly to him: "Father, wake up. You're home now. Wake up."

It took some moments before Valjean stirred, before he opened his eyes. "Cosette," he said weakly. "What happened?"

"I don't know," she said, glancing at Javert. "The Inspector wouldn't tell me."

From his position in the armchair, Javert could see that Valjean was tensing, slowly turning his head to look at him. "Javert? What happened -- is it..."

"Yes." Javert cleared his throat. "We can discuss the finer details later, but it's all right." 

The look on Valjean's face suggested he did not believe this for a second, and indeed Javert could not imagine the news of Thénardier's death and Montparnasse's deeds would please him -- not this man, who would destroy himself in the bagnes and give up everything he cared for rather than rid the world of his enemies. 

But Cosette's hand gripped her father's, and he turned back towards her. "Father," she said, her voice low and intent. "There are things I think you should tell me."

And with her free hand, she gently stroked the scars on his wrist. 

"I've seen these before," she continued, "but I didn't think to ask then. But now, with all that's happened and the Inspector being here -- Father, I have to ask."

Valjean blanched, looking as if he'd be sick all over again. "No, Cosette," he said, his voice very low but somehow still tender despite his apparent unease, and Javert marvelled at the lack of impatience, the gentleness of his resolve. "There is no need for you to know."

"But there is," she insisted, and then she nodded towards Javert. "There must be a reason why you didn't want him to tell me where you first knew each other."

Javert could feel the weight of Valjean's gaze on him. He could not bear to meet it. "I have said nothing," he said, again feeling like the worst of cowards and most helpless of men. "I have kept my word, but I cannot lie."

"I never asked you to." Valjean's voice was heavy. "Cosette," he said again, a plea in his voice which pained Javert to hear. "It doesn't matter anymore. It is all in the past. Nothing of it has to do with you."

"But it does," she said gravely. "How shall I be able to find peace again, when there are so many things you haven't told me?"

Valjean closed his eyes. In that moment he looked decades older, and Javert was reminded of his words a few days earlier: _perhaps I will tell her everything, at last._

But that had been when he'd thought he'd have no choice but to run; it seemed almost incredible he would share his secrets now -- unless he still thought of running, unless he still did not think his happiness could be saved. When Valjean opened his eyes, Javert could see they were glimmering with tears. 

"When I was a young man," he said, his voice barely audible, "I lived with my sister and her children. One winter, there was no work to be had, and no food. We were starving, and I -- I stole a loaf of bread."

Cosette said nothing, but neither did she let go of his hand. Javert could not take his eyes away from Valjean's still-pale face. Valjean's mouth was trembling.

"Do you remember the chaingang, Cosette?" he whispered. "That was me, years ago. A simple thief, a wretch. They brought me south, all the way to Toulon, to the bagne. For decades I was there." 

A small gasp escaped the girl. Her free hand flew to her mouth. "Decades?"

"Five years for the bread," said Valjean, "and more added every time I tried to run. Those scars are from shackles. You saw what those prisoners looked like. I never would have wanted you to. I wish you did not know there are such things in the world."

She said nothing for a while, gazing thoughtfully out the window. "Did they set you free at last, then?" she asked at length.

"No," said Valjean, smiling sadly. "That's not what they did."

With a voice which was still low and pained, but which grew firmer with each word, he told Cosette the same story he had told Javert: of the Bishop of Digne, the saint who rewarded theft with gifts. Then he told her of the boy he had robbed --"It means I'm a recidivist," Valjean said. "I committed a crime while being on parole. It means I would go back to Toulon for life." And yet there was no self-pity in his voice, no excuses. The girl listened without comment, her expressions shifting from incredulity to sympathy to pain.

Javert stirred only when Valjean went on describing the works of a Monsieur Madeleine in Montreuil-sur-Mer, who had made a fortune by inventing a new way to prepare black jet. "You talk of him as if he were someone else," Javert said, overlooking the possibility he was in the wrong to interrupt. "You are giving an incorrect impression of the events if you do not make it clear that it was you all along."

"Javert," Valjean started, something almost like frustration in his voice. He was interrupted, however, by Cosette, who now spoke up for the first time: "Were you there, Inspector? Is that where you two knew each other from?"

"No," said Javert, feeling entitled to speak as the question had been directed at him as well. "Not entirely. I was a prison guard at Toulon, Mademoiselle." Ignoring her sharp intake of air, he went on, "Your father was noted for his strength. I thought I recognised him in Monsieur Madeleine, the successful inventor who was elected Mayor against his will -- yes, you were, no need to deny it! -- and I was suspicious, and after the incident with the wh-- the woman who was your mother I reported --"

"Javert!" Valjean said again, sharper this time. Javert fell silent. Cosette's eyes moved between the two of them. 

"My mother?" she whispered. "Did you know her too?"

"No," Javert said before Valjean could speak. "She was a p-- a poor woman, and sick. I wanted to arrest her. Your father stopped me. But in the hospital, she died." He stopped for a moment, ashamed of his own role in that pitiful spectacle. Should he tell her of that? He ought not to conceal his own missteps, but he was a stranger to this girl, and his own life and moral status could not be of much interest to her. Deciding to leave the matter for the moment, he cleared his throat, steeled himself, and went on. 

"Be that as it may, I was angry and reported your father to the right authorities as the parolebreaker Jean Valjean. Then I got word that I was mistaken, that Jean Valjean had been caught, and I turn myself in to Monsieur le Maire, I tell him that I have unfairly accused him, my superior, and ask him to dismiss me -- and he does not! Instead, he goes to the other man's trial and turns himself in!" 

His voice had risen; he could not have stopped if he'd wanted to. "Just like when, at the barricades of the uprising, he gains custody over the captive spy, the policeman, the only man in the world who remembers Jean Valjean the criminal, the only man who would care enough to send him back in chains -- and rather than kill him, rather than gain his own peace of mind forever, he sets him free! And I ask you, Mademoiselle: what sort of man does that?"

Valjean had closed his eyes. Cosette was staring at him as if for the first time. "Jean Valjean," she said softly. "Is that your name?"

Valjean passed a hand over his face.

"Jean Valjean," she repeated, wonder in her tone. "Then who was Uncle Fauchelevent?"

"A good man," Valjean muttered, still with his eyes closed. "A man who sheltered us in the convent when we were on the run, you and I, because I had done him a favour once."

"A favour, indeed," said Javert crisply. "You only saved his life."

Valjean didn't reply. Cosette was still gazing at him in wonder. "I remember," she murmured. "Fear, and cold, and -- a doll, and a house, and a wall. But what happened to my mother? Why wasn't she with us?"

At this Valjean finally turned to look at her. "Your mother was very brave," he said, and there was a fierce sorrow in his voice which again sent that strange jolt of pain to Javert's heart. "She had you out of wedlock, but in love, her heart was pure -- never doubt that! Her name was Fantine, and she loved you very much, she did everything she could for you; but the people she paid to look after you were wicked, extorting money, which she couldn't afford." 

He paused. There were tears on his face now, and Javert was struck by how the tears, far from turning him pitiful, rendered him even more admirable: they were not the snivelling tears of a wretch writhing in the dust, they were the honest tears of a tender heart, of pain suffered and endured, of unimaginable strength beyond the physical. The last days' mental turmoil and confusion came together and turned to nothing in the face of those tears. Javert shivered.

"Your mother," Valjean said at length, his voice choked, "worked in one of my factories. She was fired without my knowing it, because someone found out she had a child -- a child who wasn't even there, kept by cruel people who helped cause Fantine's demise. On her deathbed, I promised her I would take care of you, Cosette, and so I have tried to do, may God forgive me. But now you know why you have been deprived of so many things, and why our life here has been strange in so many ways, and as for myself -- I am still a condemned man."

The room fell silent under the weight of his words. Cosette's face was pale. Valjean looked like a man waiting for his death sentence. It was the most excruciating moment of Javert's life. 

Then Cosette bit her lip, as she had earlier. "It is hard for me to understand," she said, her voice very quiet. "And I'm sure I don't, not entirely. But, Father..." Her eyes filled with tears in turn. "It pains me, what you tell me. What happened to you. And it pains me that you didn't want to tell me. Did you think I wouldn't care for you anymore, if I knew?"

"There is no reason you should," Valjean muttered, again passing his hand over his eyes.

"There is every reason I should!"

Without saying anything else, she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Loud sobs rose from her shaking body. Valjean looked stunned, as he must have -- Javert could suddenly picture it -- when the bishop had so granted him his unexpected mercy; shocked incomprehension slowly gave way to wonder and awe, and he raised his hand to stroke the girl's hair, tears again trickling down his face.

They loved each other. 

Javert could see it and recognise it; he, who had never understood nor heeded love, could feel its presence, the power it had to hurt and heal in turn. It shamed him; it humbled him. His life, which had seemed to him over the last few days a dry course leading nowhere but into the mists of error, seemed poorer still, faced with this affection the likes of which he had never known or cared about. He swallowed again, not sure what was greatest, his shame or his reverence.

At length Cosette raised her head. "You must tell me more," she murmured. "I shan't tell anyone, not even Marius." 

A strange look passed over Valjean's face at this. "You must not lie to your husband," he said gravely. "I wouldn't want --"

"Then I shall be honest. As you like. Marius would not turn you away, never fear! How could he, you who saved his life!" Her laugh was choked; she wiped at her face with her sleeve. "And to think you wouldn't even tell him."

Valjean said nothing, only stroked her cheek with a finger. He looked exhausted, as if he were about to sink back into unconsciousness, but the look on his face, a look of dazed tenderness unlike anything Javert had ever seen before -- it was impossible to call it anything but happy, Javert thought, and the unfamiliar warmth within him stirred again.

All of a sudden, the room seemed much too small. Javert rose to his feet, rather wishing he could slip away like the intruder he was, but his promise to Cosette was not forgotten. "I shall leave you alone now," he announced, his voice loud and ridiculous. "I shall sleep on the couch tonight, and if you need anything, Valjean --" The name slipped from his lips before he knew it, and he registered both Valjean's automatic flinch and his own split second of regret before realising that yes, indeed, the truth was out now to this girlchild whom Valjean loved as his own. "I'll be here," he finished, feeling like a fool and being mightily irritated about it. 

"Thank you so much," said Cosette. "I'm grateful that you'll help me look after Father tonight. I think it's best if one of us stayed here at all times." 

She gave Valjean, who seemed to be falling asleep, a tender smile. "Perhaps tomorrow you will tell me what you were doing tonight and how he got himself injured, though I must admit I have more than enough to think about already."

The latter was true enough for Javert as well. After making sure she would wake him up in time so he could take his turn by Valjean's bedside, he went to lie down on the couch in the antechamber, which was slightly too short and narrow to be entirely pleasant -- but Valjean had slept here, he remembered, after the sewers, when he had offered Javert his own bed. Pulling the blanket over himself, he crouched into something resembling a comfortable position and fell into light sleep which gave him little rest, leaving him almost relieved when Cosette woke him up a couple of hours later. 

Back in Valjean's bedroom, alone with the sleeping man and his own thoughts, he could not help remembering the night a week earlier, falling asleep in Valjean's bed after having received Valjean's mercy and returning it in kind. A lifetime ago, it seemed, filled with disarray and struggles and regrets. He had sheltered a convict, engaged in illegal activities -- what remained now of the old Javert? Was there anything left in him but long-repressed desires and confusion?

He thought of Thénardier's ugly accusations, the contempt and the venom. Then he thought of his own hand on Valjean's naked back -- of Valjean's strong arm, bared skin glowing in the lamp light -- and felt his face grow hot. 

And yet it was no unpleasant feeling, not tinged with revulsion or regret; rather, it made him think of the carriage ride, of Valjean's head against his shoulder, of the weight of Valjean's body against his own. Try as he might, he could not find these things shameful, nor could he completely separate them from the stirrings of desire: it was as if the distinction existed no more, as if higher and baser nature blended into one. 

Keeping his eyes on Valjean's still form, not quite sure what he was doing, Javert quietly rose from his chair and knelt down on the floor next to the bed. This close, the soft sound of breathing filled his ears. He imagined that if he bent his head just a little, towards where Valjean's head was resting on the pillow, he would feel that breath against his cheek. Instead, he rested his elbows on the side of the bed and put his head in his hands. His heart trembled, his body trembled. There was no way of distinguishing the two. 

"You muddle everything," he mumbled into his hands. "I have wanted you in chains, and now you bring me to my knees, without even trying."

Valjean's hand was resting on the coverlet not far from him. Javert looked at it, recalling how it had felt against his when they'd shook hands the night before. He thought of taking Valjean's hand again, of holding it -- if Valjean would permit it -- if Valjean would want it -- Javert would lightly stroke the old scars on his wrist the way Cosette had done, would run his fingers over the palm, would press the knuckles to his lips --

A soft noise tore him back into the present. Valjean was stirring, as if about to wake. Javert hastily pulled back from the bedside, but did not have time to rise to his feet before Valjean opened his eyes and saw him.

A look of inexpressible terror passed over his features, as if he was staring into his own worst nightmare. It lasted only for a second, and then he blinked, heavily, as if mentally fighting down cruel images and putting them back to sleep. "Javert," he said, his voice a mere rasp.

Javert swallowed. That brief moment, a shocking reminder of his own folly, had chilled him to the very bone. He twisted his hands. "Yes," he said, his voice almost as choked as Valjean's own.

Valjean slumped back down on the pillow. "I did not dream it, then," he murmured. "You are here, and I told -- we told -- Cosette -- she knows."

"Yes." Javert hoped Valjean would fall asleep again. It would be better for them both.

"But you didn't tell me what happened tonight," Valjean said, licking his dry lips. Javert remembered the glass of water Cosette had left, and handed it to him. Their fingers touched as Valjean gave it back after drinking. Javert suppressed a shiver, again feeling like a thief.

"Now tell me," Valjean insisted, his eyes seeking Javert's. "What happened? Did they --"

His face darkened, as if it pained him to imagine the death of those two scoundrels. Javert could not bear it. "Dead," he interrupted. "Thénardier is dead. It was the boy who did it, whether by mistake or by design, it is all the same. He took your money and fled. I doubt he'll want to show himself here again."

Valjean closed his eyes, turning his face away a little. "So that's what it came to," he murmured, almost too low for Javert to make out the words. "A man dead, a young boy a murderer, because of me."

"He was a murderer already." Javert was not sure if he wanted to look Valjean in the eye or not. "And it was because of them, because they wanted to enrich themselves on others' suffering." 

He paused, feeling helpless and inadequate. "I do not ask you to be happy about it," he said at last. "I only ask you not to plague yourself with guilt. Or if you insist, then at least share it with me."

The small quirk of Valjean's lips was more than he had expected. It made him feel oddly elated. "I do not blame you," Valjean said. "For anything."

"You should." The words were out before he knew it. "I have been nothing but cruel. I never understood you, and I still do not understand you. I do not understand how you can even bear to have me in your house, to let me sleep under your roof, to let me talk to the girl you raised --"

"Javert." Valjean's tone was calm, gentle, infinitely tired. "We are both in need of some sleep."

Javert shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. "You are the one with the concussion. Sleep."

Valjean closed his eyes. Not long after, his soft breathing resumed. Javert stayed there on the floor for a while, watching him. Then he got up and back into the armchair, where he spent the next two hours in immovable silence. 

At six o'clock, the housekeeper tentatively knocked on the door. Javert surrendered the patient to her care, excused himself, and went to find his coat and hat. Soon after, he was making his way through the wakening streets, his heart even fuller than his mind, his bewilderment only overwhelmed by awe.


	7. The world beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit later than I'd thought, but here's the last chapter! Thank you for reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, especially since this is the first long fic I've written in this fandom (or in any fandom, actually.)

Javert did not like sleeping during the day; it seemed slothful and bohemian. Nevertheless, when he reached his rooms exhaustion struck him like a giant club to the head. He barely had time to remove his coat, boots, and trousers before collapsing into bed and oblivion. 

When he woke, the sunlight falling on the opposite wall suggested it was about noon. His throat was dry and his face unshaven. Groaning, he heaved himself out of bed and went for the washstand. He had not felt this tired and out of sorts since the night following the barricade, and with a spark of dry amusement he wondered whether this was to be his life from now on -- at least if he were to see Jean Valjean again. 

At this latter thought his amusement vanished. Being face to face with Valjean seemed both impossible and inevitable, frightening and everything he could wish for; yet he instinctively felt he ought not to intrude. Valjean was safe, he was happy -- at least he would be, if he managed not to succumb to self-blame and guilt over Thénardier's death -- his adopted daughter still loved him, and the concussion would surely heal without complications. There was no reason why he would want to see Javert again; and, Javert thought with sudden decision, there was certainly no reason for himself to moon about like a lovesick youth. 

He had a task, namely to carve out a life for himself in this new and chaotic world, one which would not demand too many sacrifices either of his honour or of his still rather confused conscience. Once, he'd thought himself unfit for anything but the criminals or the coppers, but there must be something -- the most menial of honest work seemed more appealing than the risk of sending someone like Valjean to jail. 

Not long after, newly-shaven and wearing a fresh shirt, the reference from the Prefecture in his pocket, he left the building for a light meal in the café across the road. Then he determinedly went to a street a few quarters away. On one of his wanderings a few days earlier, he'd seen a sign in a window: a lawyer's office looking for clerks. He'd dismissed it at the time, still reluctant to admit to the possibility of the likes of him not being beyond the pale of society. Now he swallowed his pride and his shame alike, and asked to make an appointment with the chief lawyer.

He returned that afternoon, with the promise of an interview the following day and something like careful optimism in his heart, to find a simple note waiting for him:

_Thank you._

_U.F._

Javert put it in the drawer of his desk. Then he took it out and put it in his trouser pocket. Warmth seemed to radiate from it like a touch, making him restless and absurdly excited. In the end, he took out a pen and a piece of paper, and wrote:

_It was my pleasure. I hope you are feeling better._

_J._

_P.S.: I still don't know what the U stands for._

Then he took a pinch of snuff.

 

~

 

The next morning brought a satisfactory meeting with the chief lawyer, who deemed Javert's age and work experience no disadvantage with regards to the work he would be doing, but rather the opposite. His references, which confirmed his discretion and efficiency, only strengthened his case and in the end he was promised a post, starting the following day. The salary was hardly impressive, but Javert had no expensive habits and was used to making his living on little. He was in high spirits upon returning to his rooms, where another note was waiting for him. 

_I do, thank you. If you like, you are always welcome to come visit me again. I should appreciate it._

_U.F._

_P.S.: Ultime._

This note joined the previous one in his trouser pocket. Javert went to a desk to compose a reply, but found that he did not know what to say. 

Come, the note had said. And Javert knew he would: he could no more resist such an invitation than swim against the current of the Seine. Sooner or later, he would again find himself at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, devoid of words that made sense and without a clear thought in his head. 

The thought pressed itself upon him, forceful and tempting: why not now?

He hesitated -- maybe it was too soon. Maybe Valjean did not really mean it. Maybe it would not do any of them any good.

Then he let out a harsh snort and went to his feet. 

"By God," he muttered, putting on his coat and looking himself over in the mirror. "Enough of this. He asked me to come see him. I shall come see him; why shouldn't I? By God, I shall!"

 

~

 

Back on the landing outside of Valjean's flat, lifting his hand to knock, Javert found that his palms were sweaty. He wiped them on his trousers, irritated, and knocked. Nothing happened for a while, and he started wondering if there was nobody home after all, but then the door cracked open a tiny fraction, and then wider, and then Valjean was there, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, a smile on his face and his eyes warm, and all the clever greetings Javert had thought out vanished in an instant. 

"Come in," Valjean said, stepping aside, and it was nothing like the last time Javert had come to call like this, since there could not be any unpleasant surprises now, no threatening notes or fear of discovery. He followed, dazzled and taken aback by how happy a place the world seemed in the light of Jean Valjean's carefree voice and eyes. "Are you better, then?" he asked, taking off his coat and hat and hanging them on the hall stand. "You must be, since you're up and about like this. I hope you are being careful."

Valjean laughed, and the sound of it sent echoes throughout Javert's body. "Much better, thank you. I was about to have lunch -- Toussaint has prepared more than enough for me; she's gone with Cosette to visit the other convalescent." He hesitated for a moment. "I would be glad if you would join me."

It would not be the first meal they shared together, but the first one shared as -- friends, was that the word? It seemed presumptuous. But he could think of nothing else, following Valjean into the kitchen, which was becoming almost familiar to him: accepting the bowl of soup was easy, sitting opposite Valjean as they dipped bread into their soup and sipped white wine felt like the most natural thing in the world, as natural and inexplicable as the sun rising every morning.

Afterwards, Valjean made coffee, which they brought into the antechamber. His movements were slower than usual, since he was still prone to sudden attacks of dizziness (this he admitted only reluctantly, when Javert asked him in so many words) but the calm happiness was still there, shining from his eyes and his smile and only increasing when Javert told him, rather hesitantly, about his new post. 

They toasted in coffee, and Valjean fetched a box of chocolates from a cupboard -- "I bought it because Cosette wanted it," he said, "but I do not think she'll mind if we have some." This unexpected show of careless extravagance made Javert bold enough to offer his opinions on the given name "Ultime", which were not entirely favourable nor entirely serious. They both laughed at this, perhaps more than was warranted, but it seemed such a wonderful thing, that laughter could flow between them now, as if their long and painful history had retreated, cowering, faced with their unexpected good luck. 

Javert was sitting in the armchair and Valjean on the couch, not in the far end but in the one closest to Javert, which was a small thing that still seemed significant. When their laughter had died away, Javert realised he was still wearing a silly smile. He put his cup down on the table and cleared his throat. "I am glad everything turned out for the best," he said. It was a platitude, of the sort he'd never cared for, and yet it was all he could think to say.

Valjean smiled. Then his eyes darkened; sighing, he put down his cup in turn, next to Javert's. "I'm not sure it did," he said quietly. "My happiness is bought by someone else's death. I shouldn't rejoice in that."

"If your happiness was bought by his death," Javert said, "so was mine." Though he was aware that he had little authority in matters of right and wrong, he hoped Valjean would listen to him on this, at least. "That man would have destroyed you -- destroyed us both. Instead he destroyed himself. His greed was his own downfall, and none of your doing." 

"It sounds sensible, the way you are saying it," Valjean mused. "Even so, I mourn for his daughters. I remember that he had two."

Javert snorted. "He was trying to squeeze as much out of you as possible." Then he frowned, remembering a skinny body at the barricade. "I suspect at least one of his daughters is dead. The bastard never cared for anyone but himself."

Valjean's expression grew determined. "Then I will find out whether either of them lives, and if that's the case, I will do my best to help."

What could Javert say to that? Nothing. Furthermore, he had no wish to. "The man of mercy," he muttered, but his voice was warm even to his own ears. "Your sense of honour outweighs your common sense by far."

That earned him a puzzled but pleased laugh. "I don't know that I have any honour to speak of," said Valjean. "But I may not have much sense either, I suppose."

Javert felt emboldened by this reaction to his tentative jest. "If you do have any," he said, still taking care not to sound too serious lest he ruin the mood, "listen to me and stop blaming yourself. You shall still do good, your daughter shall still love you, and I shall still --" He stopped abruptly before he could say anything irreversible. "I shall still remind you that you saved my life," he finished lamely. 

Valjean's smile was sudden and stunning. "As you saved mine."

"Well, then." Javert's answering smile felt helplessly wide and foolish. Trying to school his features into something resembling sobriety, he cleared his throat again. "Perhaps I have some sense too, after all."

Valjean looked at him thoughtfully, but did not offer any comment but a nod. Javert suddenly felt remarkably ridiculous. Not knowing what else to do, he reached for his cup of coffee and found it empty. "Damn," he muttered, and then wanted to bite his tongue.

"I can make you some more," Valjean said, already moving to rise from the sofa.

"No! No. There is no need." Javert desperately wanted to save the situation. "I am fine. Coffee is absurdly expensive these days. I do not know where it comes from, really, since it costs so much. It must be far away." To his relief, Valjean sank back onto the couch, seemingly distracted by his babbling. "Africa, probably. Or somewhere in the Caribbeans."

"Maybe," said Valjean. "I didn't think to ask the vendor. Have you travelled much, Javert?"

The earnest interest caught him off guard. "Not really," he said, "and never outside of France." There was no need to mention he had never had the time, means, or inclination. Nor was there any need to mention that his travels, such as they were, mostly overlapped with Valjean's: Toulon, Montreuil, Paris. "I suppose it must be enjoyable enough."

"I sometimes think of travelling," Valjean said. There was something wistful in his tone that made Javert prick up his ears. "Of seeing the countries beyond, without being hunted, and knowing I was safe to come home again." His eyes met Javert's; there was no blame there. "Or to the parts of France I've never seen -- Aquitaine, Brittany, Normandy."

"I have read about the beaches of Normandy," Javert said, enthralled by the dreamy tone in Valjean's voice. "They are apparently quite agreeable in summer."

"They are?" Valjean said. "Probably. We should go there sometime, you and I."

As soon as the words were out, he shut his mouth, colour spreading in his cheeks. Javert's mouth, on the other hand, had fallen open; his face was heating in turn. "Me?" he asked stupidly. 

Valjean ducked his head. "I shouldn't presume," he muttered after a moment. "I'm sorry."

"No," Javert said, still utterly dumbfounded. "Don't be. But -- why would you -- why me?"

"I appreciate your company." It occurred to Javert that Valjean was avoiding meeting his eyes. "This last week -- I don't know, it's quite possible I'm mistaken, but I have come to think of you as a friend, Javert." Here he finally raised his eyes, the determination in them battling the flush on his cheeks. "Who else but a friend would do what you did for me, not only in meeting the blackmailer but taking me home safely afterwards?"

Now it was Javert's turn to duck his head. "I wouldn't presume either," he mumbled. "God knows I have been cruel enough -- I have considerable experience with being cruel, and no experience with being gentle. I should not think anyone would consider me a friend, you least of all."

"It may not make much sense, I'll grant you that," Valjean said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "But did we not establish that neither of us is quite satisfactory in that regard?" 

Javert looked up. A wild hope lit his heart, beyond all reason or expectation: Valjean was smiling again, his cheeks still pink but his eyes unflinching, as if he truly meant what he was saying, as if he truly did believe a friendship between them was possible. "I think," Javert said, licking his lips, which suddenly felt dry. "I think that is probably correct."

For a long moment nothing and everything happened: Valjean's gaze was still resting in his, as if he saw nothing there to be afraid of, and Javert couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to; his pulse was loud in his ears, his heart hammering. His stomach lurched, and he swallowed repeatedly, feeling once again as if he were standing on the precipice, though this time none of the possible outcomes was clearcut. 

Then Valjean rose to his feet. Javert mirrored his movement unthinkingly, so that they were standing in the small space between couch and chair, their bodies almost touching but not quite, their breathing close enough to reach each other's faces. Valjean's hand, which had once held Javert back from death, now pulled him into something far more mysterious as it rose towards Javert's face; Valjean's eyes, which had been warm and clear, were now dark and determined. His lower lip was caught between his teeth, and Javert kept his eyes on it, not even daring to blink as Valjean's knuckles gently touched his cheek. 

"I would be proud to call you my friend," Valjean said. His voice was so low that Javert was not sure if he had heard the words or simply read them on Valjean's lips. But they had come, inexplicably and wonderfully they had been uttered, and his heart swelled, a great bubbling force rushing through his body and again turning him into a man of action. 

Once more he mirrored Valjean's movement, but now he went further; he raised both hands and cupped Valjean's face between them. Valjean shivered under his touch, but his eyes stayed open; with his free hand he covered one of Javert's -- and maybe it was the tilt of his head, or maybe it was the soft quirk of his mouth, or maybe it was the relentless rush of joy in Javert's veins pushing him forward, bumping his nose against Valjean's, his lips against Valjean's lips in a gentle touch which had the impact of an earthquake. 

The shock was so great he automatically recoiled, the jolt of pleasure too intense to take. His hands surprisingly stayed on either side of Valjean's face, but the rest of him was in turmoil. He swallowed, elated and terrified, before finally dropping his hands. 

Valjean's hands fell to his side in turn. His eyes were wide and dark; his face was as flushed as Javert's own, and no less dazed. "Javert," he said, his voice faint.

Javert was not quite sure what to do, but his hand, it seemed, had an idea: it moved, as if on its own accord, back to Valjean's face, stroking his cheek. To his great surprise and relief, Valjean leaned into the touch. "That was -- nice," Valjean said. 

Javert cleared his throat. "Well." He kept his hand on Valjean's face, some deep, hitherto-buried instinct guiding him. "We could do it again. If you don't mind," he added, flushing even harder. God, what was he even saying?

"I wouldn't mind," Valjean said, again raising his hand to cover Javert's. His smile was tentative and a little puzzled, as if he thought this was some bizarre dream -- or as if it did not matter, as if he did not care what happened to him. The thought made Javert almost nauseous.

"Valjean," he said, hoping he did not sound like a complete ninny. "This is not one of your acts of mercy. It must not be. I know there is no reason you would want me -- God! There is no reason you would! -- and yet, Valjean, if you want it as I do, if by some incomprehensible chance this pleases you, then --" 

He stopped, as if stung, as Valjean's hand left his own to cup his cheek, as Javert had done earlier. "Javert," Valjean said. And kissed him. 

It was just as good this time -- no, it was better, Javert thought hazily; God, it was so much better. Valjean's hand curled around his neck, his mouth opened under Javert's mouth, and it was wet, and hot, and strange, full of whiskers and beard and the taste of coffee and chocolate, clashing of teeth and noses that kept bumping, and it was everything he had never known he wanted. He moaned, pressing closer, and Valjean did not resist: quite to the contrary, he pulled Javert closer to him, so that their bodies were flush together, and all hesitation and all doubts unfurled and disappeared, one by one. 

After what could have been seconds or minutes, they broke for air, and perhaps this was where it might become awkward, where things might be ruined, but all Javert was aware of was Valjean's body so close to his own; the uneven breathing, too loud in his ears; the knowledge that he felt vulnerable and afraid -- as if his very heart was beating in another person's body, to be destroyed or discarded at will. He clutched at Valjean's shoulders, trying to regain his breath. 

Then he realised two things: one, his body had made certain presumptions of its own, leaving him with the unmistakeable beginnings of hardness. Two, he was not alone in this. Valjean was staring down at his own groin as if he had never seen it before, and when he raised his eyes to meet Javert's, they were filled with wonder and apprehension.

"How," Javert started, but found his voice was failing him. He tried again. "How can you want -- why?"

Valjean ran a thumb over Javert's cheekbone. "When you washed my back," he said. "That night. It felt -- I had nothing to compare it to. I'd never expected it to be possible, for you to touch me in such a gentle manner. I could not forget it afterwards. It made me think of --" 

He broke off; his flush deepened. "I'd never expected that. I never knew anyone like that -- I've never wanted anyone like that."

"And then me," Javert murmured, amazed. He wanted to kiss Valjean again, more than anything; more than anything, he also wanted them to stay like this, so close together, to trade such words as made misunderstandings impossible. "Of all people."

"And now you." Valjean smiled at him. That, too, Javert wanted more than anything. "I suppose that is one way to put it." 

Laughter fought its way out of Javert's throat; he could not hold it back, and Valjean joined him, and they kissed again, first chaste careful touches to lips and cheeks and chins, then more eagerly, impatiently, with their mouths open. At some point they found themselves on the couch, which was not quite large enough for the two of them to sprawl upon in this manner, but they somehow twisted and wriggled themselves into something resembling comfort, lying on their sides and facing each other, legs mingling. 

With some fumbling their trousers were unbuttoned, flesh meeting and sliding along hard flesh with each grind of their hips, and they kissed, again and again, touching each other's faces, hair, waists, eventually venturing to take each other in hand -- Javert got there first, caressing Valjean's hardness in firm strokes that still possessed a softness he hadn't thought himself capable of, watching Valjean's eyes flutter shut and his mouth open in rapture. And when finally Valjean trembled against him, hot wetness against Javert's hand which spilled onto his shirt, it only took a sloppy kiss to the corner of Javert's mouth and a warm hand around Javert's arousal to set him free, and he came, helplessly and happily, the world exploding in colour and light.

It was only when they lay wrapped together afterwards, forehead to forehead on the narrow couch, that Javert remembered something. 

"God," he muttered, a shiver going through his sated body. "Your concussion. This was utterly irresponsible."

Valjean kissed him again, his lips quirking against Javert's mouth. "I do feel somewhat dizzy," he said, "but I do not think I mind."

In the end, they got up and cleaned themselves, and Javert borrowed one of Valjean's shirts. Then Valjean made more coffee, and they drank it, stealing glances at each other and hiding their smiles behind their cups, and when Cosette returned later in the afternoon, accompanied by the housekeeper Toussaint, Javert found he could not conceal his happiness, so he did not even try. He stayed for dinner, and Cosette talked cheerfully of Marius's progress, and Valjean's legs rested against his own under the table, and he had never known anything like this, and he had never known the world could be like this. 

He returned home that evening with the fresh memory of Valjean's mouth on his, a final embrace in the shadows on the landing, and the knowledge that there would be a tomorrow, a brighter tomorrow full of mysteries he had never yet contemplated, and he looked at the stars above, warm lights in the summer night, and it seemed to him there had never been so many of them before. 

 

***

 

_And so, dear reader, we reach the conclusion of our tale, which leaves nothing for us to say but this: Fate is inscrutable, her paths mysterious, and immovable truth can never be captured by human law; but fearing for others is key to our salvation, as those of us who love are vulnerable and those of us who do not are lost._

_And if we do not think ourselves worthy of love, let us take to heart what the great English Bard said about mercy -- it is not strained, it drops as the gentle rain from heaven; it blesses both the giver and receiver. And so, too, it is with love in all its forms, which in the end no human being can do without: it confuses us, awes us, and blesses us in turn, and the world would be a better place if we sinners granted it more often._


End file.
